Born

I've been sittin on this one a while, so here's how it grows:

We are all born with these marks on our
hands, and Oh God, I have spent 23 years
trying to wash them clean, because we
all want to be free.  Free to love, to hurt
to build up walls and watch reflections
of reflections sway back and forth in
a stationary window pane.

We are all solid on the other side, all
ghosts as our eyes stare open
mouths, open hearts made of glass,
not quite ready to break.

I felt my veins. They barely made it
through the blizzard, a white out behind
my eyes.  I told you these ships couldn’t
sail in frozen waters.

I told you these ships were built too
fast on hope, holding out, hope holding
out faith through blown out window panes.

We were better off building bridges to
no name islands, casting stones as if
we could reach the opposite shoreline.

As if we could reach out and touch the
drift of the continents, they sway beneath
my feet, and I know someone somewhere
is still breathing

But here I am…

Here I am after 23 years, still scrubbing.

Raw skin, red with something like regret,
but I would be counting on superstition if
that were true, and we’re always counting

We’re always counting the things we love,
losing ourselves in reckless abandon, calling
ourselves survivors because we loved Once!

Once doesn’t count! Once is not enough to
love, to know love, to take apart the
heavy weight in our hearts we must love,
but it must be more than once.

And we all crash into each other; it’s no different
than those games we play with cars, the games
we play with each other.  It is true we all have
wooden hearts and they sink to the ocean floor.

They are warped and shaped by the years.

They are bent to form something we do not
know and we take care to anticipate the way
we hurt.  But we can’t imagine.  Imagine a world
of believers enraged by deceivers, casting our lights
to the floor so we might be illuminated ourselves.

So we might stand for something.

So we might stand for something in this cold quiet,
dark night, too dark to see, like three a.m., too
dark to see, like someone carried away the moon.

Who knew the stars could be so dim?

They shine like guardians over some sacred
possession.  Looking around I can only believe
they have failed.  They can’t help that they are
in the distance fading.  It is after all the fault
of our abuse of trust.

We had the opportunity to grow together, but we
spit water, nourishment, on the ground, thinking
the earth could use it more.

So I can feel this wrapped in layers around
my ribcage, broken, and I thought
it could heal, if but for a moment, then I
was lost in the dizzying spin of your tornado
and your words slung far and wide began
to cut deep.

So I waited for the flashover, I expected
a spark, and a short circuit and you exploded.

Then it was dark, my hands were grasping at
straws you held before my face, and I could
feel your fingers between.

And you woke up, lit up, spoke so many words.
Spoke like the almost nothing you had between
your lips, between your hands, isn’t this everything?

Isn’t this everything we thought we had seen.
Aren’t these words, spilling from mouths, naked
and real.  Why can’t I hold on to them?  I feel them.
I knew them once and I will know them again
for the first time.

And I watch my hands.  These marks I tried
to wash off keep haunting me.  They swirl and
curve like little rivers, running deep and dry.
They feel nothing and shed layers upon layers.

I was never unique but uniquely yours and
I am losing whatever that was supposed to mean.

I was never unique but still I stare at my
hands, resignation on my lips, ceiling fan air
swirled upon my face, watching reflections
quiver in a stationary pane of glass.

And I wonder about impermanence…