How Does A Poet Ever Write About

How does a poet ever write about

The things that matter

I want to write about

My mother’s notebook

And my sister the dying star

I want to write about the grieving blackhole

And the beauty of supernova unbecoming

I want to write about

The library that swallowed the sun

And burned

And burned

And burned

I want to write about how every book

Has smelt slightly of smoke to me since then

I want to write about forgiveness

I want to write about my unravelling

The things I will never get back

I want to write about the teardrops of time

Filtering through my lashes

I want to write about the end

I want to write about the end

The end

But it is all so

Hopeless

So infinite

I try to write of it

And I sit with the galaxy in the pit of me

And I ache

The words die on my fingertips

The metaphors swell until my throat is

A rose stem

And I lay on the living room floor

Remembering how to breathe

Promise myself

I do not have to write the poem

Promise myself

I never have to write again

And the galaxy consumes itself

And there are no poems

There are no poems

About the things

That matter

~ don't call me a poet

I am still forgiving myself

For the time I wasted

For the people I loved who did not love me back

And I knew

And I knew

And I am still forgiving myself for the staying

For keeping the loneliness 

In all the parts of me

I swore I'd never let it 

Touch

The doctor tells me I might have arthritis at 9 am on a wednesday in november 

My shoes are wet, my coat is soaked, my umbrella is broken 

I have to catch a bus in time for class 

In 20 minutes, 19 minutes, 18 minutes

18 minutes

18 minutes

18

The cold is seeping into my aching bones 

The doctor tells me I might have arthritis

But he does not believe the MRI results

He says I am only 18

18

He says it should be impossible

For my body to be is such a state of

Inevitable disrepair 

And this is all I have ever wanted

For someone to tell me that I am too young to be this old 

That all this ache belongs somewhere 

That I am allowed to hurt

And that they are going to heal me

The doctor tells me I might have arthritis

And there is nothing we can do 

Which is of course not exactly what he says 

He says here are our options

And i hear 

There is nothing we can do 

I hear

This body 

A broken record 

Only getting worse 

The song you once loved eventually

Unrecognizable 

It's surface covered in scar tissue that runs

Too deep

To love back to healing

But you remember 

You remember 

What it sounded like

When it was capable of beauty

My family is a compilation of unhealed truths and disintegrating hearts

Infection is setting in but we are all too proud to ask for help

We do not know how to say:

I cannot fix this one,

this time

it is not simply my refusal to

This time

I could not stitch this back together

Even if I tried

But we are more than willing to gripe about the pain

To say that we are dying without the weight of the fact that the end is coming for us

Will rotting away in the back of the fridge with the oranges I told my mother not to buy

She says it is her money

Tells me to stop worrying about the price of things

When all she has ever taught me is how much life costs at someone else's expense

.

My father says he's sorry

It is the one thing my mother

Never did

He says he's sorry and that he is trying

To change

He says he is getting better

I say

Okay

I try to

Believe him

I try to

Forgive

But I have never been taught how

Never been taught the phonetic difference between

Mercy and forgetting so they become

Synonyms

And remembering a sin

Only committed in the shower

When the water is louder than the sacrilege

And how can I hold him

When I am still mourning the loss of the

Parts of me he shattered

Because he was angry

But even I know

How much easier it is

To hate

Than to

Grieve

.

I remind myself

I have broken things too

I remind myself

I am only

What I have let myself become

I remind myself

I have no one

To blame

But myself

So I blame her

Bathe in doubt

And swallow the bathwater

~ my mother will never be sorry

I wait for inspiration at the door step of my youth. But she has long forsaken the promises we carved into my childhood bedframe. And this is the abandonment of the muse. For there was a season when poetry herself wooed me into unfurling my untried fingers to her pen and for a moment she was encapsulated by the way I bled ink for her. How deep I was willing to tear myself to reach the sweetest similies. Capillaries and couplets. And she kept me. Until the metaphors melted into puddles of half remembered melodies. And she grew bored. I cannot recall which came first.

I always knew her gaze was fickle. Her favour easily shifted with the tilt of the light. And how easy it is to fall into shadow. How beautiful the canvas of the sky when closest to darkness, when teetering on the precipice of the end. I write to her still. Shove the love notes composed of subpar symphonies under the porch where she promised she would return for me. And what does poetry know but already rotting vows.

In some letters I miss her. And in some I ask her forgiveness. In some I bleed, and leave this offering to be unfound. I wring out the papers drenched in desperation, and ask her to hold me. One last time. I ask for a poem. And I use the letters to burn my past to ash. For perhaps the smell of smoke carries farther. Perhaps ash and charred memories, will linger longer than love.