“humility is not thinking less of yourself,
but rather, thinking of yourself less.”
where is the fine line between confessional poetry
and an incoherent mess?
she tried to tape a cracked mirror in the middle of
a gilded frame only to cut her fingers in the process.
she still can’t see herself for who she is
because her contacts aren’t in. yet.
it’s okay though, her downfall was trying to see through others’ eyes,
but more than that, likening herself to a charity,
unworthy of anyone’s donations of time.
not a mistake.
not to be validated like a parking ticket,
justified like Times New Roman on
the page of an essay you stayed up,
stinging eyes and all, to write.
the last thing he said to me before we faded to strangers
was the darker the blood, the fresher it was.
whenever i scrape my knees, i think of you as vividly as i did years ago;
whenever i bruise my ankles i see you behind a translucent screen
and all i feel is a dull throbbing.
when grandma fries fish the flesh
grotesquely gurgles in gold oil,
and i bite down, trying not to feel guilty about death
and consumption about waste and
ungratefulness and foolishness and pride and MOM,
THE WORLD IS A TERRIBLE PLACE AND, AND,
I COULD FIX IT ALL
IF YOU’D JUST LEAVE ME ALONE
a year ago i wrote about how your collarbones
looked like the crook of an owl’s wing
how the sky was able to remain beautiful and worthy despite change.
you are a work of goddamn art even if it means
painstakingly painting on your own gold flowers,
even if it means carefully picking up the shards and trying
not to cut up your freshly bandaged fingers,
even if it means framing your own mirror,
i hope to see you on the other side.