I guess we lied to you
told you the land was better than
the water because things died here
and that made the love better.
when really having you here
made us better.
and it was never because of your
beauty, well, maybe for the other
storytellers it was, but i think
as a species we’re bad at seeing
with our eyes.
and i am bad with feeling with my skin,
but i know your knives, and maybe
your search for a soul, is the same
as my search for goodness.
i know i did the right thing
telling you it would be better,
because even those people who don’t
tell stories are better for mermaids existing
but i’m sorry.
I heard her melody
of a new dream.
One, not vested solely
in a humble husk of human flesh.
One, that is not an inherent contradiction
exploding when it contacts a realm
where its opposite exists
That isn’t pleasure strung together
in addicting and subtracting numerical
patters because it is the only thing
here. where adding in a single space
of emptiness, when you are trying to make
bounty, results in a zero sum.
what did they mean?
she made heroines with them,
would have made heroes too
if husbands and fathers lost
their stubborn secondhand shame.
and knowing that role models sweat
and cried and felt shame and
couldn’t even define their own ideal
didn’t make the constructs
stop dreaming of meteorites
even though they had sisters and mothers
even though they thought they had imperfect
We were throwing off rainbows
in our wake.
But it still took the sun,
and we still watched them dissolve
the problem is on days when i dont know
if any of us deserve to be saved.
when annihilation seems futile
as i stare at our trajectory charts
and that choice seems right for everyone
not just for me.
when i have given up on the rest of it
existing, let alone being saved.
and these mundane pleasures-
even the intellectual questions,
experiences feel like hedonism
that even this ugly type of art
does nothing but serve narcissism
and legitimize pretension.
“how do you ride the sea?” he asked.
“like any wild thing. you pretend your hips,
your core, is made in part by it,
and you hold on.”
I am in love with every thing,
and in equal parts i loathe,
and sometimes, when i play with one
of you, my broken dolls. I feel
because i can hate your suffering
and love your joy and pretend
the world works in discernible patterns
and cycles and pretend that i
am a useful sort of god.
that i can make it better than it has
always been. that i can sew
your flesh and soul, and not just
your patchwork clothing.
there are three books, i have
in pairs. three belong to me.
one, belongs to a dead boy.
maybe he loved me, maybe
i was a reason of his death.
the second, belongs to a dead girl.
she did not learn to love from her parents.
i killed her.
The third, belongs to a fool.
She loved it. So much she forgot
she owned it.
It collects dust now.