Two smoking towers behind me
I am a story told with drama and pause by my mother’s mother.
Assume that no one hurts another intentionally.
Smoke cigarettes with me when we’re drunk.
We’re conditioned to think love is hard. Strenuous.
When you ripped my blooms off my stems and then kept pulling until my roots were torn from the dirt, only then did you let go.
I’ll pour your bourbon down the drain while you kiss my friend in the alley.
I wonder what it’s like to be the second born.
Lay me down on in the grass and touch my neck with the back of your hand.
After tragedy our bodies still require us to eat and sleep and yawn and do the mundane nonsense that makes us human.
So you sit with the realization that you will have to sleep but what’s worse, you’ll have to wake up.
You’ll have to eat, but what’s worse is you’ll feel sated for a moment and your body will betray you reminding you of what comfortable feels like.