There is a chest
of skin, of drawers,
with pictures of waterspouts
coming out from the ocean and into the mainland
where you once lived
before
when you were younger
before
you learned how to hope, want, or wish.

Your step became unsteady once,
even more,
every time you would stand on shrapnel.
(Under your feet.)
There was a growth under your skin,
an addition of pride,
for your newfound wasteland

But even worse,
the future you see,
the future you bring,
the future you are completely okay with.
I could wait up sick,
waiting for a response,
I could wait up waiting for anything,
and it’s something that you’re completely okay with.

You’ve been standing outside of my apartment,
With your mouth open wide, and I haven’t heard enough of it.

Tell me, tell me, Miranda,
where do you see yourself tomorrow?
Do you worry each Wednesday,
when the week is almost over,
where you will sleep
where you will sleep

your sanctuary is Missouri in May,
and I still insist on cutting my tongue off.

You’ve been standing outside of my apartment,
With your mouth open wide, and I haven’t heard enough of it.

I will not speak of
the crash,
cause if it is never spoken of,
then history will never know it happened.
If it is never written about,
then no one can ever read it.
If it is never talked about,
then no one can ever hear it.

Do we know the truths
Of every broken step?
Only if it’s told,
forgotten when it’s old,
undesired and cold,
there is no story to be sold.

(we’ll say)

We’ll say
we’ll meet up in some hotel room,
be it fancy or pay by the hour,
and we’ll comfort each other
like we used to in our time,
you’ll say it’ll be just like the old days
but it won’t be the fucking old days
no it won’t be the fucking old days,
only now with our broken parts,
our overused and torn up pieces.
Will it be better than before?
Will it be better than before?
Do we thank our practice with others,
or will it be tarnished by exact thought?
Will it be better than before?
Will it be better than before?