A man with OCD recites a poem about his one true love. It’s heartbreaking.
Each time I’m asked to tell about myself, I find myself starting the same way: “My name is Kelsey and I’m nineteen..”
but what I’d really like to say is:
“My name means island of the ships but once
I found a translation that said I’m a burning shipwreck-
not a burning ship but a ship that has caught fire
after the wreckage and well, I’d say that’s more fitting.”
I’ve learned that people don’t have time for about me’s.
They need two things: a name and an indication you’re someone special.
The doctors, they want facts not details.
“I broke my leg when I was three, it’s a funny story actually-“
The right or the left?
The teachers, they want interests, hobbies.
You’re sad, yes, but what do you like to do?
The adults are a spew of questions.
What school do you go to? What classes are you taking?
What do you plan on becoming? Got a boyfriend?
People my own age are the worst.
“I’m planning on an English degree with a concentration in creative writing.”
Yeah, aren’t we all. So how many times have you, you know,
I’m pulled apart, my interests travelling highway 2
my goals at a stop light at traffic hour,
my medical history on a billboard for the world to see.
But what about me?
Where’s the chance to say,
“I hang on to fistfuls of poetry like loose change in my pockets,
and I keep waiting for the day that the world turns upside down
so I can swim with the stars.
I’m not afraid of darkness, it’s a loneliness I can empathize with it.
It’s the blackholes like cigarette burns inside of me that get troublesome.
I walk through graveyards and read the dashes between years,
each a story I’ll never know. Sometimes I create my own.”
No wonder none of us know who we are anymore.
we are abberations
(unwanted, unloved, undone)
twisted creatures with twisted wings
(broken and shattered and filled with rage)
reaching for the sun
(come to me, come to me, oh sweet beloved)
but blinded by light
(ever turned to you though the skin blisters and bleeds)
crawling clawing squirming
(it is our right, our right, our right to feel)
grabbing for flesh and bone and warmth
(make us whole, make us complete, make us be)
longing screaming failing to fly
(it burns to move, to flutter, our feathers torn)
because the ground is so near
(so close, so close, the ground goes splat)
and the sky too high
(but never, oh never, never high enough)
We are out of Time.
We are out of Place
out of Space
out of Rhyme.
There is no rhythm to our Vision,
no reason for our Crime.
We float away like Jetsam
upon a river of Brine.
There is no up to our Down
no down to our Ups,
So we fall Sideways in life
as we try to Stand back up.
There is this moment
right before I open my mouth,
that I wonder why I am
speaking at all.
I’ll look you in the eye
and you’ll gaze right through,
dismiss my words like
a buzzing in your ears.
Then I’ll realize you are still
staring at me
and I have yet you answer
I ate your soul today.
It tasted a bit like turnips.
So I spit it out
and ate your heart instead.
I don’t want to be desired.
Desired implies I wish to be owned
that I am property
that I need keeping.
I want to be admired,
like a painting
or a piece of art
And hear them whisper,
can never be tamed.’
Its me against the world
Me against the wolves
with their gnashing teeth and painted claws
And I, and I a gaping wound across the darkened sky
pinned with their eyes of liquid gold
And through the smoke is the blood red sun
casting shadows upon everyone
And the battlefield is bathed in a crimson sheen
as the clanging of steel is raised in symphony
through the smoke, through the ash, through the arrow piecred side
and through the dead that will never rise
a bitter crescendo is reached
where iron and flesh do meet