A Thank You Note to the Monster in my Closet
Let me tell You a secret:
I do not know what I'm doing
I move like fog
and I aim to be a rumor,
I want their eyes to dart towards me,
see me
-without the skeleton, amnesia and gunpowder-
and be infatuated
Let me define myself if only through a cryptogram:
I want to disappear before I can disappoint you with the etched graffiti on my hipbones
I want them to see a great blue bird in the mist,
free-spirited like a breeze,
and fall in love with her before she leaves
But I am a northern fox
with hazel eyes and blackberries on my mind
And fur far too dark to be arctic
but eyes far too wary to be anything but
*****
she hunts alone,
on mountain tops with the taste of a cigarette on our tongues
and here is where she kills,
(or is it where I run away)
She dances around the timber in her constant analysis
(I've been trying so hard to avoid the city lights,
which burn grotesque figures from my nightmares onto my iris' every time I witness them,
that I'm not even sure what she's looking for anymore)
She's fighting to gain some insight into what occurred
(while I can only struggle against the monster with no eyes and so many teeth)
She tells me there is a race in my mind and I must always win
(if he catches me again I won't be strong enough to fight back)
so I will soar to catch the songbird
and I will sprint until her freedom is mine
Then the whispers can only gawk
They will want to qualify me, I'm sure
But there is no understanding how the fog and the moon
will take this cunning fox and turn it into a royal thrush
The only thing I can say for certain is the wartorn bone will still be there,
just more obscure
Because I only care what they think of my flesh
Underneath, the breathless girl
with crushed lungs, a bittersweet butterscotch voice,
and a body too large and too small
and everything at once
is not for them
(or for You)
she is cherished
and the only ones allowed to witness her
are the animals that are thrown out by the group of Trolls
that live under the water,
as she has been through the same treatment
*****
These Trolls will stop all travelers
because no one can leave their kin,
and if you do
You are the big bad wolf
and it doesn't matter what's growling for you in the woods,
because you mustn't leave something
that wants so badly
to devour you
But no matter, Trolls won't stop me any longer,
I will run and hide from all those things I do not trust
and I have no apologies,
I will bare my body to whoever I want
without remorse
and will not be told that it is wicked,
because I am an art museum
with a great big sign that says "no touching"
*****
Long ago a big bad lion
with ash speckled on his face
like snowflakes
pawed at the artwork without asking
and now it's torn
You can't even see it unless you get close
but the cracks grow every day
and although I seal them shut with gold
my paint is chipping
I try to hide it in the things you won't notice:
A glimpse into untamed hearts,
letters to the moon and her army of stars,
smoke slipping from my lips into the streaks sunlight
and the thrill of a chase.
But really,
all I want you to see
is the heart so big
it bursts inside this tiny bird body
but instead
I have an empty ribcage with a soul broken into bits and stored
I keep my only part in the pocket
always on me like that last bit of carmel
its there
but never where you'd think to look
The other parts have been gifted
to the few deer I know will swallow it
and keep it close to their lungs
*****
No one can ever get a complete piece
because if they stay too long
they'll see the hollowness that lives in my skin;
the ash falling from my eyelashes like tears
and the purple colored caves dug out under my coffee-colored lids
then again, the trickster is much better at hiding the cracks
but even if I could run home with my paws dirty from the pursuit,
if I could try to rinse them off
and fit into the cage built of my obligations,
she does not like to be stuck in a home like a jail cell,
even now, I can barely stand it some days
The animal will listen to few
(and I am usually not one of them),
her feral instincts do not like being confined
in floral bedsheets like the noose on my death sentence
****
So here's my confession:
The museum won't let you touch art because
as soon as you lay your polluted hands on it
it's less than before
Sometimes the thought of clean air frightens me
because without contamination
I do not know how my lungs should work,
How does my heart skip a beat
when there is no fear of You,
how do I find a vision beautiful
when there is no chiaroscuro of panic to darken it
*****
So darling,
all I can say is
I may love you
and promise you forever
but no matter how strong and warm the sun in my heart grows
every star has to die
and maybe this love will die with me,
but please remember dear:
I may not be a bird
but God can I run from You like I'm soaring in the clouds,
and terror was only a tether to keep me on the ground