Having ‘That’ Conversation Again

My Dearest Armistead,


Is life a perpetual cycle? 
Because everything seems 
To be happening repeatedly. 
I found myself, again, 
Engaging in 'that' conversation. 

The conversation where 
I hold another person's life. 
The conversation where 
There is only one chance 
To do the right thing. 

I can only hope 
I made the proper choice, 
But I dread that with each cycle 
I am a step closer 
To getting it wrong. 
It seems inevitable that 
I will have blood on my hands 
From being unable 
To do enough 
Or get there quickly.

Every time I have 'that' conversation; 
I am left empty, 
Wishing I could have spoken to him. 
Wishing that I could have soothed him. 
Wishing that he was here, 
And it was all a horrid nightmare.

Why can't someone else 
Accept the burden for a while? 
Why does it have to be me?

Yours,
​Armistead.

Forever Linked

We Got matching Tattoos
And we laughed when they sketched them.
The needles buzzed,
But we didn't pay them any mind,
We merely enjoyed their sensations.
When the guns were pulled back
Our hearts had matching hourglasses,
But yours was half empty,
And mine almost full.
We assumed an artistic difference
Nothing more
And delighted gleefully,
Content being forever linked.
I didn't see that last grain,
But it fell faster than mine.

The Girl That Could Dance

Outstretched legs that could reach the sky,
And nails long enough to lose an eye.
Curves small and soft, but defined and outlined,
Face tight, flawless, and often kind.
Pointed toes that swept deftly, precise,
And affection that came at a price,
Back tickled with golden hair,
A body most beautiful bare.
Elegant movements, jeté, plié,
Childish as very cliché.
Parents who raised their child right,
With the grace of a mythic sprite.

Shame everyone else had loved her too.

The Sequel Child

Images move animatedly across the tv screen,
Sounds are blended into the background noise,
The foreground filled with heavy breathing,
The satiation of pleasure between two,
Summed up by title of ‘Netflix and chill.’

The sequel, a follow up on two series merging,
Finally born, gendered by the pink onsie,
The gentle curves of tassels and bows,
And the growing basket of perfectly painted,
Single expression, pose-able dolls.

Years of playing courting, marriage,
Nuclear house, one ken, one barbie, and baby,
Of traditionalism imposed in playtime, destroyed.
The babe who once played with dolls,
Becomes the doll in the tent playing with her bae.

Within a flash, the two are married,
Both taking and barrelling their surnames,
Living equal in their roles, life, and love,
Until the hourglass is empty,
And the grieving hold their umbrellas in the rain.

The Woman Wore Purple

​I had spent many hours with her,
​Both young and grown.
I had grown beside her kin,
With a mother who shared her blood.
 
She was reckless in my mother’s eyes,
Wild as the wind that she flew on.
A woman who lived by no law,
But by principle of her own heart.
 
She near always smiled at me,
And she laughed at my cynicisms.
We drank several nights away,
At the bar, or on the step of a shop door.
 
Like many young, I fled the nest,
Spread my wings for lands afar,
Leaving them all behind me,
But visiting with growing infrequency.
 
On my return there would be happy reunion,
Drinks, songs, smokes, smiles, laughs.
Gatherings of the now grown and their young,
Besides our elders now older once more.
 
But time did fly by quicker,
And 15 months seems to blink fast.
And soon I am beckoned back,
Returning to see her again.
 
My mother, as always,
Holding the hands of my family,
As a means to hold their souls, their bodies,
And their strength, in an upwards fashion.
 
Me, smiling through, as taught,
Showing that the living are not afraid.
I hold her hair 'twix my fingers,
And braid in flowers as we laugh.
 
I roll her smokes, before my own,
The legality of them questionable,
As she waves between here and there,
Jittery with fear of being wedded.
 
I paint over the hollowing skin,
Lighten her sunken eyes,
With a mixture of tones, pigments,
Creams and powders, brushes and sponges.
 
The clocks strikes and the camera clicks,
She grins as she is wheeled along,
I press the button as she makes vows,
Promises to be short lived and kept.
 
We drank, we smoked, we laughed,
I sang, for she couldn’t any longer,
I walked for her, towing the chair,
And navigated with care and fear.
 
Family gathered, united, strong again,
Smiling at the simple pictures I captured,
Wondering at the beauty of her,
Of her soul, of her love.
 
The woman wore purple,
As a bride, draped in purple and white,
As a mother, through waking night,
As my aunt, when hugging me tight.
 
The woman wore purple,
And when I saw her last, she wore it still.
Though I’ll never see her again,
I know the woman wears purple.

Definition Lost

The scissors final snip liberates me of the locks over grown,
And creates a new silhouette around my face,
One that sat similar to a past one, but as a newer rendition.
The colour a combination of fading hues, out grown bleach, and dark roots,
The sides shaven short, and the top left long and loose.
I felt like a renewed me, a different individual,
No longer defined by the frugality of an overgrown home cut,
But shaped by the hands of a professional.
Living as though a person pampered, showered in shallow luxuries.
Looking at my reflection and regaining the power I felt for too long was lost.
But the power was not the item lost to me most,
No, for I have lost my definition.
 
I am at the whims of the family I hold together,
As my equal seems to drown in the life we have found ourselves in,
I hold afloat our raft, and provide for the three of us a sanctuary.
The safety net is spread wide enough to catch them and their baggage,
As my baggage is dragging through the murky waters behind us.
Each case holding a different aspect of me,
A portion hidden away indefinitely, until time allows me to unpack.
My heart cradles a child spawned from a careless woman.
A mother who desired a babe, but couldn’t protect the child,
Whose selfishness took over her instincts in favour of a demon.
 
The child loves me unconditionally, and I love more in return,
Handing over the remaining half of each breath I take,
Giving her each second heartbeat, and most every thought.
I ferry her across the unwelcoming seas, bearing the waves myself,
As she dances blissfully unaware of the storms we pass through.
But motherhood is not my definition, only an inherited title,
One I clench my hands tightly around to keep, but one I fear also.
 
I am spread thinly across each bag that floats along with us,
The literate, the musical, the angry, the calm, the loud, the quiet,
Among some of the guises interchangeably worn, but put back,
Restrained back into their hides, as I try to establish the singular face to wear,
Unknowingly losing any further identity in my search for one.
Writing under a name not given, but chosen, picked like cherries,
And not wanting liberation from anything other than myself.
 
Realizing maybe this is the meaning of grown, or maybe this is the meaning of trapped.

You’ll Never Know

You'll never understand his humour.
The way he said hello, without even using a greeting.
His intelligence will never fit with yours
The same way his fingers sit perfectly with mine.

You'll never believe the transparency of his emotions,
But that's because you'll never trust the way he does,
Or care about his opinions the way he does mine,
When he's imagining the house you'll one day share.


You'll find his sarcasm rude or offensive,
But that's because he doesn't tell you he loves you all the time.
You'll never hear the static on the line because he won't hang up,
He never wants to say goodbye, so we talk for even longer.

You'll get a smirk, but never see his smile,
Or the way those baby blue eyes glisten at you,
But that's because you'll never be stood,
Embracing under the falling water together.

You won't hear him try and speak French,
Because, even if he can't say the words correctly,
He knows it will make me smile.
And if that fails, Alan Rickman will save the day.

You'll never get to steal his hoodies,
Because he shares his warmth and his life with me.
He knows being in his arms feels safe,
But also how often the firm hand is craved.

You'll never share that stolen dance before leaving,
And he'll never forgo his comfort for you,
But we'll sleep in the most uncomfortable bed,
Just to hold me close, even if it's selfish of me.

You won't find kisses softer than his,
Nor end a night with such intense love.
He'll never open bottles for you in the morning,
Because he's making sure I'm not thirsty this morning.

You won't see the value in a walking IMDB,
But you don't even know who Lars Von Trier is!
And you'll never get to joke that he's part yeti,
Because I'm the one using his chest as a pillow.

You'll never get a tour from an awful guide,
And still have a fantastic day together,
Because he will share my headphones and music,
And enjoy not having to say anything at all.

You won't be encouraged to chase your dreams,
Because he's too busy making time for me,
Too busy understanding my views and interests,
And keeping his mind open to a new viewpoint.

You'll never know why he's so great to cuddle,
Or why he is willing to tell you everything,
Because he's listening to me sing to random songs,
Even if I'm not putting any effort in.

You'll never understand that he's just him,
Because you'd take him for granted, and he never would.
He's too busy putting all his efforts into
Writing the perfect poem to steal my heart again.


You'll never have someone know what you like
Or someone who's willing to wait quite so long,
Because he knows that you should be serious
Especially when in love.


You will never get, know or have this from him,
Because you don't love him, nor he you.
I have had, know and get this from him,
Because I love him, and he loves me too.

Void

We used to sit and talk,
Until the late hours.
But tonight I sit alone,
A cold void next to me,
My only company,
A cigarette, lit of strawberry,
Like the ones we ate in the summer.

Tonight no laughter,
No giggles at the trivial.
You used to stroke my hair,
And say 'Baby,
'You should get some sleep.'
I'd laugh, I knew,
Really you were tired.

We'd lie on the bed,
Gazing at the ceiling,
As if it was a star lit sky,
Repeatedly say goodnight,
And laugh between.
Perhaps exchange tender kisses.

But no kisses tonight,
No repeated good-nights,
No childish laughter.
Just emptiness, void.

Maybe I'm always looking,
To find you again,
To have those times.
But I won't find you.
I need to relearn love,
It's differences, it's newness.
But I won't open my heart,
Not yet, I'm not ready.

I've loved others,
Made love with others,
But the depth, complexity,
Is missing, empty.

My whole heart buried,
Beneath the grass we led on,
One day I'll let go enough,
To take it back.
But I find solace,
​In the void it leaves.

Internal Anguish

For so long I've formed pain,
Held it within my four walls,
Within the structure of myself.

I learned this to be unhealthy,
Destructive to my personality,
So I believed expression was key,
To let it all flow freely,
Unfiltered, from my lips.

You encouraged me to talk,
I reciprocated such action,
Believing you willing to listen,
And knowing my ears are open.

As I learned to open up,
Began to find release,
I faced judgement, more pain.
You couldn't deal with what I held back.

I'll be no fool again, like this,
All previously thought progression,
Now clearly regression.
So I apologize for my blindness.

I'll not let the world know my pain,
I'll keep my internal anguish,
Even if I crumble inside, then out,
It must be less than external hate.

I'll retreat back to myself,
Keep in my bubble, where I'm safe.
Never to be scolded again,
By a fire that others fuelled.

I'll embrace my internal anguish,
Understand it as my only companion,
Never to be betrayed by tongues,
Relaying information untrue,
Or turned, or twisted, or even honest.
People cannot cope with my pain,
So I'll no longer seek advice.

Divorcing Deceit

Where does the honest value lie?
You measure it with paper,
The weight of metal in your pocket,
Disregarding the real appraisal.
Happiest to assign digits to all things:
Interaction: reduced to a number,
Friendship: summed up by addition.
You see price tags above our heads,
Exploitation in our situations,
Yet opportunity in our kindness.
To give and give freely,
Is not possessed in your nature,
I'm almost certain of it.
You miss the enjoyment of value,
When mercenary needs control,
To take and take greedily,
Is to abuse the true treasures:
People