lonelilies wilt

for what it was worth i simply got tangled up in ideas–
words that wrap themselves up in narcissism and insecurity before tiptoe-ing out of my mouth,
silent and creeping like termites in my walls they eat you from the inside out;
GET ME OUT and speak me say me, stumble all over me.

I write to you all the things that go unheard when screamed into the ears of others.
floating in the tepid inch of water that covers my blue face–above the surface.
In the scrapes and stumbles is dictated the story of who got where, how and when. we have each fallen like chips off shoulders; off of bigger, older blocks
weighed down extra with baggage stuffed full of guilt and regret. 

We are the unspoken second chance of the hope that inseminated my existence, there is a reason and purpose to my edges and corners because like any other incomplete human, I am the puzzle piece that makes it click, I am the vision in blind fingers in the dark, taking comfort in numbers and inching along for answers.

but for what it’s worth grace doesn’t get me anywhere near you,
it’s all tornadoes and wind storms from here. 

For all the entitlement and pride in the second coming I wouldn’t give up the reality of natural disaster,
beginning with the plates that ripped apart Pangaea and 
leaving off with the forces that pushed me to you,
we have scribbled footnotes in forged tongues, in history books where words do not survive but the images are burned forever
into memory which ferments into nostalgia.

in the long run, in the bigger scheme of things,

If I am supple pale skin you are blistering suns,
eons away and still burning my very surface

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