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.

--

--

Photo by Cassandra Hamer on Unsplash

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.

--

--

Michael Guevarra

Michael Guevarra

Bay Area writer, sociologist, and feral poet // editor of The Anticapital