Home > poem, Poetry, Writing > sometimes, we burn

sometimes, we burn

Our history
sits like a cat on my doorstep,
bringing me clever presents,
leaving and returning
out of instinct, waiting
for me to open the door.
It paces. I pace.
It brings me more hope
like dead birds –
and there’s a moment
where I feel less like a liability.

This is how it always starts,
and I know
every hip-curve of this world, I know
how to break a window
when the doors won’t work,
nobody else
will ever see the mess, anyway,
but it could also be happiness,
these ashes, a new start –
sometimes, we burn
the house down
as an act of disclosure –
this is mine.

I wonder
how many different kinds
of loneliness
lie in between us. How much
empathy is there
in this absence? Our story
should be softer
than the angles of a spine, but I
still want to scream things
until even the wind
sounds like your name –
is there another ending?

Tell me
we aren’t lost again, aren’t
running headlong
into rush hour traffic
wielding excuses
instead of knives, lingering
too long on the edge of can’t
and fear – give me
a forest of solid ground
and passion that is its own promise,
give this a heartbeat
and not just flesh
and bones.

Categories: poem, Poetry, Writing Tags: , ,
  1. October 9, 2014 at 7:51 pm

    Beautiful and heartfelt.

  2. October 14, 2014 at 11:00 pm

    Right in the feels with this one. I think I’ll be printing this one out and tucking it into pages somewhere so I can refer back to it, the way I do with the poems that resonate especially. ❤

  1. October 14, 2014 at 11:01 pm

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