I face you under patched roofs
and above red carpeting. Beside holes
in the drywall covered with flags
of countries we never believed in. With each step
the rug changes to a different color and texture.
Fake linoleum tile begs to be real ceramic as if to
say just try to break me. Metal chairs adorn a table
that should be real wood if it weren't found on the side
of the road, a free sign dangling in the wind.
All the while, we resume
the dance you started when I was seven
and you were selling candy bars for boy scouts.
I clank dishes, fold clothes,
and vacuum floors as your gaze spreads
up my spine and across my rib cage.
It is warmer than the eyes of the signed portraits
of band members hanging on the walls. Eyes peering
into me, knowing too much and yet not enough at all.
Even now, I walk in, trying to impress you,
joking, smiling, my hands squeezing
my waist as if to ask
is it enough?
YOU ARE READING
Faces of Autonomy: A Poetry Collection
Poetry"The bones break, building upon one another-each vertebrae snapping, stacking, until my limbs reach the highest shelves." -From Chameleon. TW: Abuse, Grief, Loss, Violence. Poetry was never a genre I thought I would get into. I read very little po...
