I couldn't see the forest
for the trees had been cut down.
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My hands are calloused from clutching too tightly around the idea that we could dissolve into dust or sink so deeply into our mother's arms as to absolve ourselves these thoughts. And there are cuts on unclenched palms from where you've made diamonds out of bad decisions held so long. Just another casualty in the coalmine of dirty thoughts. I know that you
are not just bruises but I still cannot see past the florets of violet and indigo that litter the space from your neck to your hips. I distract myself by biting nails and tearing holes in the soft fabric surrounding us. In my chest
I hear pounding of my heart beneath my ribs beside my lungs inside it's cage. It echos thundering of wild beasts leaving hoof prints in the snow as they search for what's left of wild spaces. It's not Christmas now,
take down the decorations and put them away. Alberta skies and no forgiveness.
No ocean waves erasing. Or sandy shores kissing calloused feet. Just harsh sounds of silence on snowfall and frost-bitten ears. In these moments I am more wool than water, than flesh. Just quivering skin under knit. You are there. Flirting with warm days and sun rays, where sky meets self until you radiate golden. And I am here. With my back towards the mountains and wind whipping through my hair. My head is a hive,
and though the humming can drive me mad, my mind melts with honeythoughts. There is sweetness in fingertips and in stickiness. Synchronous bodies buzzing towards beauty or armed with weapons. I pray you are not scared of bees. The half-full cup of coffee on the table
and the mail by the front door and the dishes in the sink and the fish swimming on the mantle and the bookshelf by the stairs are just tricks to make me feel like this is home. |
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November 2019
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