I'll bet you $10 that right now

there's a guy dipping his Banquet Dinner

chicken fingers

in the brownie that it comes with.

I bet he's got a system where he knows

how long to microwave it

so that instead of a sponge

it comes out like sludge

and it's prolly the best part of his day

I'll bet you $10

that there's a balloon in the air

somewhere.

With a note taped to the side

words that will never be said

and that those words actually mean something

special.

I'll even bet

on a cigarette

in the mouth of someone who just quit.

And in that guy's head

is dopamine and dread

cuz he knows this one isn't

his last.

There's probably someone

driving their car,

and singing along to the raido

with conviction and pride,

all of which dies

when they pull up to someone

with their windows down.

'course I don't have the cash

so don't take me up on it.

I just spent my last

on a coffee

from the gas station.

“Don’t hold on,” I told him. It didn’t hurt any less.

“How could you say that?” His eyes looked desperate and mad and I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream.

“And the world...suffer?” I said instead, softly. “And for what? Love? Us?”

He didn’t reply. He looked away and his hands felt weaker in mine. “It’s not fair.” I laughed. I almost wished that things could be different, why does it have to be us? But I was tired. I only wished for things to be easier.

I reached for his chin and pulled his face to mine. How do you stop a heart from breaking? “We were damned to fall anyways. We burn. We don’t belong here,”

He smiled and it was terrible. It wasn’t beautiful. How do you stop an ocean from spilling? “I know.” His face was scrunched up like it pained him. But he was still smiling. And I didn’t want to let go.

I grinned. How do you make a dead star burn again? “I love you, ”

″You’re terrible.” He told me. But added, “I love you too,” quietly and I wanted to desperately hold on. How do you kill forever? But with a last soft placed love on my cheek, he let go.

I fell.

you ask me a question, only, it doesn’t feel like it is a question but a statement. you eyes are closed and your face is somewhere else but you’re here and you are asking me what colour the sky is. blue. blue. blue. someone is crying in the distance and your hands are fisted against your thighs.

this conversation sounds aimless, pointless about nothing, about colours, what you had this morning for breakfast, about the cracks under our feet. do you like pizza? we are talking but not about what matters, not about the whiteness of your knuckles and the stutters in our voice, the silence that sits heavy in our hearts.

and the distance. the distance.

you are not smiling, i’m not smiling but we are laughing and it hurts. it hurts. the lighthouse is hot and so close but i can’t see it, we can’t see it and this sea is drowning us, we can’t breathe but we are laughing and i can't hear my voice. when can we go home

we were standing once and now we are sitting down on crossed legs and looking up at the sky and everything feels so empty. this distance between us is too much. you are telling a story and i am not listening, i’m watching your eyes and there’s something missing.

there’s something missing.

who are you really

I don’t have time,

I’m too busy,

Are the words you always heard.

The drive is too long,

I’m too tired,

Are the words you always heard.

You waited for me,

I know you did,

You always told me you waited,

but I never came.

And now here we are,

I’m standing in the bathroom,

Crying with my mom,

begging her to not let you go.

But there’s nothing we can do,

You’re at the end.

I was standing next to your bed,

and looked you in the eyes,

turned around to wipe away a tear,

and when I looked again, you were gone.

@chainedinshadow

We always wrote letters.

Intimate, in a close sort of way, without being personal, like people are today.

The structure of the page was reflected in our tone.

The addresses, laid out like building blocks, forming the foundation at the top of the page. Formality, I suppose, was common, then. Though we did not write “Dear Sir or Madame,”.

I called you by your name, which was dear to me, though back then I did not realise quite how precious you were.

Dear Katherine.

We wrote of daily events; mundane, perhaps, to others. But not to us.

With mild humour and the sweetest love of friends, with innocence and deep consideration.

I marvel, now, that I never came to visit. That something happened to keep us apart.

Perhaps while I gazed at you in admiration, you said “I do” to him.

In honesty, now, I forget.

I think of you, Dear Katherine, on quiet days and wonder.

At school, before you went, we walked, alone, to your empty home. At sixteen years, yet never kissed or spoke of love. For six whole terms, we made our escape to the solitude of an empty house.

Such opportunity!

Yet we indulged in nothing more than scoffing cakes, bought at the shop along the way.

Today, I have my life and you have yours.

We never meet.

And when I sit in silence, as I do now, I am torn between wishing I had kissed your neck, undressing you with trembling hands and beating heart to take unsteady steps into love and feeling gratitude that I did not. And you did not either.

For now, I have exquisite memories, so pure and untainted. Of joy; of love; of eating cakes. And later, writing letters of daily joys and innocence, that always ended with my love.

And started with: “Dear Katherine,”.

Tell me a story - tell me a story about a girl who stole all the night stars with her hungry, starved hands and stuffed them in her mouth so that she could feel some warmth  (in this cold, cold world)  it would fill within her and she would be a pot of golden happiness, like the all stories she heard - but instead (because nothing is ever easy) a burning, blazing (ugly, blood-spilled) fire razed her as her teeth bit into the stars

  She had released a monster in a quest to quench her hunger (how far will you for yours, how much blood will you spill till this life enough, satisfactory) 

(how far will you go, to defy death and bring her back)

Tell me that story about the girl who begged for the fire of the stars and instead - was consumed and her world was left to scorch with the fire of the stars that burned with the force of a hundred suns ( blinding white-hot) weight against her throat (they said one drop would save her; they said one drop and you can save her but the rest world of the world burned in your haste, your desperation)

(but i just wanted to save her) (it’s not fair) (she was never supposed to die now… not yet) 

(but oh dear, when is ‘yet’ ever gonna come) (you can never be ready for death) 

And now, look at you - (was it all worth it)?

She’s - (I’m) drowning in hollow black that steals breath with bony (sharp-sharp) soft hands; ghost hands made of ash of burned stars (that you stomped under your feet) (she’s gone and no one’s gonna listen to your wish) and spilled-blood of darkness (the depths your willing to drown to),  it grabs and takes, takes, takes till - there’s nothing left but open mouths and white screams and a world of white (they said, they promised) (oh, but you knew) (they were lying, dear). White, White, White. Everything turns white. Leaves you aching and bereft, a type of hunger existing in your bones - slowly killing you inside out. 

(somewhere, far away there’s a crack, dark laughter) (you can feel it’s sharp ripples of glass in your feet) 

She can’t explain in words but each parts of her (me, me) aches. It cries out - for something - for - for – love. It screams till there are only words. 

(she is gone, gone, gone) 

Your vomiting on words, on words that leave your mouth in acid and leave it raw-raw red (you want rip from your throat). It fucking itches and no matter how much you fucking try to wash off, no matter how much you try to drown that disgusting feeling in his kisses (swallow the guilt, dig your nails into the meat of it)- no matter how you try to crush it under the force of his teeth, in the heat of his mouth. It persists and fucking haunts you. 

You Made A Mistake. And Now You Have To Pay (dig, dong the devil is knocking at your door)   

   _ make your choice now, girl what is gonna be? 

                  (what are you gonna murder today? hearts on silver plate aren’t the fashion now)

You kiss him desperate and hungry but when night comes and the world is silent and the stars’ fire burns down - you can feel it, the red-acid disgusting feeling (it always fucking comes back). It crawls into your dreams (nightmares) and you wake up with bruised black under your eyes and everything burns. (so bright it’s too much, you can’t. you can’t) (STOP)

I can’t breathe. Yes, you can. No, I can’t. I can’t fucking breathe. I can’t. You can. I can’t. (help me - please).  

There’s something crawling in your heart, darkness imitating hands buried in your heart filling everything with night stars that burn sharp-bright and you can taste the stinging black blood at the back of your throat.

Like panic, like yearning - like hands. Hands. Hands. 

and you (I) hate - it. I hate it. I hate it. So damn much. (she’s dead. the world’s dying and you gotta pay up) (crave out your soul and offer it on a silver plate and don’t forget the spices of want, desperation, hate to add flavour) 

Sharp blue eyes in darkness and cold, cold bone hands. “Where is my payment, girl.”

Blood, blood sharp in your mouth, ”Fuck you.” Pause. (Terror looks you in the eye.) “And it’s Jay, you fucker.”

A last smile and twisted laugh and you fall, fall. 

.

.

.

Was it all worth? 

Yes. 

I stood on the bridge and waited peeking over the edge beyond my white shoes and clattering kneecaps,

I think I should be falling now and of the long way down,

now I’m sitting by the windowsill as she sits beside me,

My hands run through her honey-colored locks,

while the scent of lavender fills my lungs and i wonder,

"why do I do this for you," and she replies, "don't stop I'm in love,"

but did you mean the feeling or me because I'm standing at the edge,

wondering if the truth of us is enough to keep me from falling into you,

and I know that maybe you'll hold me close but it won't be for love nor hope,

it will be for lips pressed to lips and chest to chest and kiss to hips,

while our chests heave and we execute the dance of death without the eternal sleeping,

still I won't cry for you and you won't stop me from leaving,

but I left orchids at your doorstep because deep within my bones,

I know I shouldn't care if you leave but I want too

the crows smile. a murder, and two, and three, but the crows smile.

rain seeps into the foggy newspaper; of black nights and missing black women, sins blaring through the city; police sirens wailing, babies wailing, funeral processions wailing.

san francisco is on fire tonight.

the flames lick and lust, charred flesh and jealousy, the hijab cannot snuff out this inferno. but the hijab can speak. the hijab can incriminate. the hijab, and the convenience of a discriminated suspect. the hijab, and the death sentence.

neon lights, flickering, flickering.

he beams at her lone silhouette; a dissolving pill and beer pitchers, dazed slurring and torn clothes. morning, mourning, mourning; hangovers and unfamiliar genitals. there is only so much she can do. there are only so many tears left.

hymn, hymn, humming into the skull.

the cassock slips off the unholy shoulders; oh father, forgive yourself, for you have sinned. he is but a child; you, him. your fingers caress forbidden places, god is displeased. god is stoking his hell for you.

gutters, gutting, gutted, guts.

the city pours itself in; broken shoes, empty vodka bottles, filthy and cruel. sewage, wager on our doom, wages and the daily, we are crows crowing.

we smile. a murder, and two, and three, but we smile.

#poetry #poem #poet #prose #ugly #raw #church #destruction #sinners

sometimes my lungs flood with tragedy

sometimes my ribs rot and collapse, cave in

to the cavity of a hollow heart

carved out

by those sickly, sugared love songs.

this sweet-tooth of mine

will be my death.

if i’m not gone already, that is-

sometimes i like to imagine that i am

just a ghost glimpsing through the veil,

a visitor in a life,

a golden, lost body,

that isn’t mine.

that would explain a lot,

i think.

the absence

the disconnect

but no;

this was not a murder, but a metamorphosis.

i can see the sculpture of my skin

outlined in the suffocating heat,

buzzing in the thick air.

shoulders weary,

head down. i can hear the echoes

of my past self,

he shadows me as i move through

these fields, these halls, these echoes

of her, shaking through

my life, causing tremors,

ripples,

through the flow of reality.

he hesitates

when i pass you.

that sweet smile of yours,

my undoing.

sometimes i unravel when the sun casts its gold against these tile floors

sometimes when it hurls itself across the classroom walls,

across my skin,

my hands,

my fourteen-year-old eyes.

my maybe fourteen-year-old eyes.

sometimes i feel that,

this fourteen.

sleepless,

shining,

sweet-toothed fourteen.

sometimes i feel more than that,

or less;

thoughts that are not mine,

feelings that i have no right to.

still,

this is a fourteen years body

filling with love,

with pain,

loss leaking through my pupils.

sometimes this sweet-tooth of mine leaves me

rotting

to the core.

sickness in the midday glory, these dandelions

watered by my weeping. these footsteps in the grass halt;

i am flying above the storm clouds.

this sulphur eye of the hurricane,

this moment of almost-peace.

this is not how my story will end.

this is not when.

i refuse to be another teenage tragedy.

i won’t fall in love with this honeycombed, sun-speckled

syrup-steeped, poisoned, perfect, horrible

image of youth.

i won’t fall in love with you.

APOLLO X. SMITH

(@boyeternal on instagram. feel free to suggest edits, and thank you thank you thank you for reading.)

#trans #poetry #boy