Talking to him is like handing someone my day-old baby.
It’s like that first meal you cook for someone. Or that first time you get on stage, quivering.
No sense in reiterating—babies have been dropped before. People have been laughed off stage, and others have caught fake smiles from their dry chicken parmesan.
And I know his heart is likely as scratched, brusied, scraped, and used as mine but who is to know how this stranger protects his own.
The weight of the world lifted away and I was left with its skin
and much like my own
I see the scars left by fellow humans on its fragile, and most mighty layers because the hands of a creator are delicate with their intentions while human eyes are built to see beauty but only manage to see problems
And this is a problem, you see. Despite my ironic consequence, trust me, I’ve breathed a toxic status quo.
Your weapon was dipped in heartache and a cancelled future before you thrust it through my chest
I’d love to tell you how fine I’m doing, but even more I’d love to hold you again
Here we are at week 8, still bound to the burden of what may have sustained
Here you are—struggling to disregard our potential
I remember those years of inadequacy
So content with our new world yet so discontent with our skins
I remember punching those green-gray lenses from the movie theatre glasses and cloaking our wrists with colorful bands as confirmation of our status
I remember throwing our hands up to Taio Cruz, so certain we had the answers,
There’s more than one way to Burn a Book,
Just tear the cover and Light a Match,
Or rip the words out One by One,
Burn the pages with Red Pen,