I’m afraid.
I'm afraid everyone will forget me
I'm afraid to age and watch a world grow unaware of me
and I'm afraid I'm not doing enough to fight my fears.
Oh honey town, take me
and split me up into a million pieces,
bury them-
among your ruins
by the feet of the blackboard trees
under floorboards of my arsonists' rooms
send some to the little old me swaying at the edge of the moon,
she wouldn't be very pleased with what she receives
but at least her palms won't be empty.
make me with one with the sculptor's clay,
amoebic beads of my being carefully placed in the arms of a God this townsfolk ardently believe in, (and diligently disregard)
and when they get tired of their rituals
and swallow back their sins (dry vomit wrapped in their handkerchiefs, its factual,
mine reeks of hypocrisy, its mutual)
they'll drown us in the river nearby, like silly plastic
So could you preserve our(my) soul(s)?
I hope there's pieces of me in excess,
I'm tired of not desiring to take up space.
Once I dreamt that I had dressed myself in a million shards of broken glass from my dad's liquor bottle
and drank up all of his regret, what a thirsty little swine.
(it tasted ancestral, transcendental, of unknown origin, a pungent odour of continuous neglect-
i even had a vision while the last drop slid down my throat,
vision of my father as
a lone boy with skinned knees, with his back turned to the harbour, begging my immobile grandfather to spare him a look, a momentary glance even,
"did-did he forget me?" a sob escaped from him)
Now my sclera swell red and blue each time I go unnoticed.
(my mother always said I've got my father's eyes and his bitter rage, I hate how i've been trying to give it a name)
my dad's a little ashamed to stitch his heart into mine
the only lovely thing he's ever told me is I'll never be enough (when has one ever been, really)
and his words grew like moulds and gently nestled within my gums,
years later, i've swallowed most of its spores, and all of my fears taste just like it
and so, we begin again-
-----
[Nature reuses
plotlines
not wanting
to waste
a thing.
And so we get sewn
back into
our origins.
The deeper
textures.
- Postmemory, Jenny Xie]
YOU ARE READING
dullchild impassionist forever
Poetryi try to heal from myself every single day by extracting all the blood I bleed in a silver goblet and cut a piece of cherry in it. is it a drink?
