******
small hands clasp together
folding like tents on stomachs
built for keeping secrets
like promises carved by knives
and bones, blood and sweat.
together they weather the hours
spent sitting side by side
spent longing for the warmth
they cannot have, because it is wrong
it’s an abomination and they are monsters
ones that do not hide under beds
or in closets.
читать дальшеthey hide in each other’s back pockets
and they pray for a casted shadow
where they can risk a look–a touch
where they can risk a trembling kiss
not on a bloodied cheek or bruised fists
but one where mirrored lips press together
like land and sea, like an echo
meeting the lungs it was birthed from.
they’re innocent, even in these bookmarked
moments where their fingers ache for more
for the complete depravity of relishing in
the even thrum of each other’s hearts
because they are wrong, they are so wrong
but two wrongs, are somehow right
and they are right.
chest to chest, hip to hip, breath to breath
in and out, begin and end and all over again
small hands clasp tightly, molding together
becoming an anchor that they sink helplessly
into both of their chests. they mark the spot
it digs into with their initials
and they call it, ‘home’.
— K.E. | Mirrored Lips (via samcentric)
Countdown
x
I can’t remember we were ever that young,
yet stone is unforgiving and the numbers all too incriminating.
the air forever tasting of gunpowder, sulphur and old leather.
both of us pretending we were bigger than the world.
three of us managing to be so for a short while.
blood turned to ashes, our sense of taste never the same.
ix
still, I kept believing one day we will sit down
and the sea will come play at our feet like a big cat,
rolling and purring and daring us to try her claws.
through all the grief, all the steps that somehow never led
in the direction we needed to go, I believed.
viii
I stopped believing when it was said this was not to go on.
a gardener who wants to split one plant in two doesn’t know his garden.
perhaps our gardener just stopped caring.
perhaps he was gone. it could be any of the million perhapses
but none of them could ever justify taking my lungs, my heart and my roots.
what to believe when at best all promises are half-lies,
hurtful even more so when they were given in good faith.
vii
it’s easy to accept sin when a blessing is nowhere to be found.
it’s easy to start speaking with flesh when words are proves useless.
there’s nothing easy in deciding what is right when nothing is though,
and when time starts running away from what it’s bringing,
how do we keep standing? when the ocean hides the bottom
what is there left to call anchor but our own flesh and blood?
vi
the wind that had always been carrying us is slowing down –
we are nearing the end, end of this storm, end of this story.
still marching, still managing, through pure stubbornness
marching through blood-drunk land. there’s no rest for us,
but hopefully after we finish we’ll wake in the same dream for once.
v
alas, dream is only that from which we have to wake and life…
you don’t get to wake up from that. I can’t get warm.
there are strangers in us, watching with strange looks through our eyes,
and I keep building walls, trying somehow to keep the seed of sun alive.
how do I keep building though, if everything is white and there’s no up nor down,
the endless white devouring all, beast that could never be sated?
iv
the longer we live, the more I think it’s only because
there’s no other place for us to go to. nowhere else we’re accepted
and nowhere we’re welcome. it just keeps spitting us out.
are we so unworthy? the only comforting fact is that we still feel.
there must be something left if we still bleed.
iii
sacrificial lambs, that’s what we are. no good for anything else.
in now rare moments I’m allowed to listen to my breath in you
I try to remember it all in case I stay eaten this time.
the great mother will hopefully hold me close, gently, as a lost child.
bury me deep so I’ll feel her lullaby in my bones.
(tell me to stay, for you I won’t go)
ii
a hanged man and the puppet.
sky never seemed so far away, with all the angels here.
it eases my hurt, seeing them deemed unworthy too.
not the only ones. we’re not the only ones.
two half existing men aren’t worse than them, yet we can never be whole,
not the way they dream to be. we know what dreams are.
we know what life is, even as I try to pour my blood back into you,
hoping your body will accept it back if it’s from my hands.
clock keeps ticking, reminding me of the last time I heard you. (I’m proud of us, too.)
i.ii
do we ever get to say goodbye?
we’ve been torn apart and managed to stitch us back to one piece,
right now I’d give everything just to be able to say goodbye,
to kiss those stones left lives and lives behind and leave.
we’ve been torn so many times there are truly pieces of me in you
and parts of you on me, inseparable one from the other,
and I fear what would happen if one of us only stumbles.
can we get to say goodbye, at last?
Come back to me
(the words in italics are from the opening scene of 6.14)
east wind blows south.
your compass spins wild circles
on my skin, my voice breaks
into tears.
sam, sam, sam?
my nails break
when your fingers scratch,
when the wall calls your name
i answer back.
sammy!
like fake fire failing to burn,
your air fails to take hold,
your lungs remain silent and still.
c'mon.
i fight the things that take you from me,
i fight the hell beasts that scream in your head,
i do it all but your silence remains.
c'mon, dammit!
seconds pass, they are years to you,
decades of screams that steam from your skin.
that poison your air. you lean on my ledge,
but you’re gone.
hey, hey, hey, you with me?
my heart beats deep beneath your skin,
my heart pumps light and life to you,
my pulse is yours.
c'mon, c'mon let me get you the hell out of here.
from here : http://poetryandoldermen.tumblr.com/page/8
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