the moon disappears every 28 days.
it wanes & waxes in fractions; it's smart
enough to not try everything at once.
i have been taught that every 7 years,
the cells in my body will die & be born again.
this means the moon will vanish & reappear 91 times
before i will have skin free of your fingerprints.
Proud Lake is located in Commerce, Michigan. at the crack of dawn,
you can find a boy with a gravel & honey voice casting fishing
lines into the abyss. you will wonder if he'll catch a good one.
time knows no boundaries;
just benevolence that doesn't always work out.
once, when i was 2 years old, i choked on the leaf of a mulberry tree.
not every seed bears good fruit.
sometimes, something is so beautiful that you can't breathe.
sometimes, you won't even try.
my palm is roughly the size of a nectarine.
in Chinese culture, nectarines symbolize mutation
and mutation is a change in structure.
i still don't know what my hands are trying to tell me.
a boy named Joshua told me:
until you have seen a deaf girl dance,
you know nothing of passion.
what about chilly summer nights spent
on the damp field of Camp Hickory?
what about phone calls that bleed into the gentle morning?
what about mourning the death of a loved one who is still breathing?
i have apologies tattooed onto my ankles
from all the times i stepped into a bad situation.
i wear high socks so no one will know how sorry i am.
it doesn't matter how wide we spread our fingers
to block our faces from the sun because we all
end up in graves anyway.
we should've learned by now that appreciating something
after it's gone is the worst way to be too late.
we live in a cardboard castle.
you're in the boxing ring with your words instead of fists.
i store the ache of missing you in a box under my bed.
spring cleaning is in a few weeks and
there is dust in all the hard-to-reach places.
a boy named Dallas asked me:
what makes a man walk away from his mind?
i told him that last summer, i rested in the arms
of the boy i love and saw my first shooting star.
i ignored the tug of the feeling that leaving conjured.
i let my heart compass me forward.
i found myself a cutting board and a scalpel and
dissected my own brain and questioned my amygdala:
how is a 300-mile stretch of road signs a safe distance
to travel back & forth without ever moving?
like my hands, it still hasn't answered me.
my skin cells are still dissipating.
this is where time's failed benevolence kicks in.
i sickened myself with the thought of our decline.
i tried so hard to cough you out that my throat
bruised all the way to the outside of my neck.
not everything is cured with good intentions & passing minutes.
we store our love in a body bag.
there are too many casualties on the lawn
of Camp Hickory to identify them all.
we collect them in a mass grave and skip the prayer service.
i knock on wood 16 times in a row for good luck.
i am convinced that it'll make the moon phase faster,
my flesh disappear altogether.