The Elephant
was in the room with us, I don't know how
you didn't see it sitting there, staring. Staring
into your icy shoulder,
I can hear what you never say about me, the elephant
tells me. A sad little breathing machine you think
only here to define you, steal all of your
existence, breathe it in, bathe in it beneath
sparkles of sunbeams. They are in the back collecting
consciousness and bullets, just in case
the elephant, too big, needs put down. Your unwhispered
words carve my skin, tear me layer by unbeautiful layer
trying to see something that is there but
never really existed. You peel away and I wish I was an onion
with no feelings so you wouldn't use my blood to paint
your eyes shut. I see you eye the elephant standing
in the corner with your memories trying to convey
messages to hide those thoughts in dust so you won't have to pretend
like I existed for an infinite moment in your conscious decision to be human.
There is no floor to this porcelain box you built
for us, only cracked walls and a roof covered in the ash
from the falling stars because you loved their sound
when colliding with electrons in your dreams, shattering
distortions and preconceived notions of the world and what it meant
to be a man. You used to say it merely was defined
as not being celery, or a brick in a mailbox, or an egg on a house.
You said it meant that you weren't the onion, chopped up
on your hot dog, or the hound that always chased
the tires on your truck. You said to be a man meant that you were
a footprint on the side of the road where you littered yesterday.
A man could smell my hair in the wind while seeing the marbles
in my eyes. A man wouldn't be an elephant
sitting in the back of the room staring at the velocity
of unspoken words. There was an infinite moment
in the history of moments, once. Infinite possibilities
danced across fingertips, over white teeth, and down cracked
sidewalks. That moment is gone and that man is missing. The elephant
tells me all I will be seeing is your silhouette beneath a bouquet
of streetlamps waiting for the next bus to take you to the man that wouldn't
make me an onion who has all of your words lost in a hotel somewhere.
YOU ARE READING
The Dragon That Breathes Flowers
PoesíaA collection of poetry exploring struggles and growth through the destruction of family obligations and expectations, through love and the ones that weren't the one. Poetry that aims to capture the human experience. I hope it resonates with you wher...
