Friday, 02 March 2012

• For Aye:

  For @Awoolham.

   

  The sky makes me feel small,

  as it always has, ever since I was a child

  when I would look up at the stars at night,

  and into that empty void of heaven stretching over us,

  like a painter’s canvas over a wooden frame.

  At night I’m still the child, the girl

  who left the tension, that rising heat wave

  in the house, and stepped into the chill of October

  to stargaze, and watch as each exhale escaped into the atmosphere;

  I have never aged, not really, not in a way that actually matters—

  I have never changed, not really, not in a healthy manner—

  I’m still small, insignificant (my favorite word),

  infinitesimal, gazing upward into the cosmos where my breath disappeared,

  and where my every hope and dream died.

   

  And yet I remember those nights fondly,

  because the alternative was whatever fight took place behind closed doors

  between two people who claimed to love one another, but never really did;

  and the truth is this – my innocence never died inside the atmosphere or the cosmos,

  my innocence died behind those closed doors, inside those four walls;

  my freedom was bought, and my home established in the stars,

  because no where else could I send my hopes and dreams, where they wouldn’t be ridiculed.

  This is why I call my mother the moon and my father the night,

  because they’ve both enveloped me in a commonly cold embrace that was filled

  (like the silence in my head, and the scream inside my lungs) with the under-current of heat,

  that wave that washed over the house that I called home, the foundation that crumbled,

  and left me barren, homeless, with only the stars for company, and only the moon and the night

  for family.

   

   

  On a semi-unrelated note, apparently I cater to my audience. <---Don't read this.

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