the embers in your touch
don’t leave any marks on my throat.
we are cigarettes with
clearly labeled warnings —
more honesty here than
in the Forever of commitment.
we know: statues on pedestals
don’t smolder like this.
best to take a long drag,
fill each other’s lungs —
each other’s blood —
let it burn for a bit,
then flick the ashes away.
sometimes self care is a nice walk or some yoga
sometimes it’s a burrito the size of a secret Republican baby
sometimes it’s a blunt
or time with your cat in a cuddly mood
sometimes it’s bingeing a good show
or time with friends
or time alone
sometimes it’s drinking water
or watering plants
sometimes it’s a bath
or tidying up
or a bit of art
sometimes it’s writing a poem
or reading one on Medium
sometimes it’s not being able to do a god damn thing
not a single. god. damn. thing.
and being cool with that.
they said the general is dead
We said good.
they said how dare we speak that way of a man of great deeds, a man with accolades and prestige, sworn loyal to the nation’s creed
We shrugged.
they called him politician, diplomat, statesman. their voice shrieked from the screens: we are the news! who are you?
We called him war criminal, liar, murderer, tool.
Our voice blossomed from the soil: we are the culture, we are the truth. And we are not your fools.
i started writing a poem about the brutality of loneliness.
i scribbled something like,
“how is it a heart can detonate in complete silence,”
but couldn’t find what else to say.
then i saw the ‘publish’ button in the corner of my eye,
and pushed it anyway.
