Jay. (4.10.19)

I want Azalea to feel like you,

but it feels like something else.

you want to hold me so close

without putting a finger on my body,

as if the past strung up your paralysis

and froze your emotions in place,

to catch them before they could reach you too deep

in the place you were too scared to be.

the kind of stability

fluent in all the correct tax write offs, gets a weekly paycheck

that doesn't look at you with barely 21 years

a living in art being made, however unstable it can be prone to being,

caught up in the theory that they are all

lost in stevie's vision in our minds.

holding you up to the dream until you match it,

feeling so hurt and misunderstood if you don't.


and like clockwork

the young women come and go,

I have merely been on rotation.


I know them -

the kinds of sentimental scars others can't see,

furthermore,

to ask how deep.

men in violation,

compositions unsuccessful,

anger always turning to fury,

deprecation that knocks on every window,

medications forgotten this morning

Plunging too deep in the art pond and the sacrifice to be able to come out,

anxious that at any moment I will lose my agency just trying to fight the current.

But that is precisely the thing.

I think about you like that water

but also like you can never settle on a choice

without falling victim to the rest that challenges it,

that you had lied through your teeth

about our evenings that could have been,

every hesitation that lets me live on, hanging by a single thread in your head,

to dispose of your patterns once and for all.

I want you to run

when you want to walk,

feeling the weight of cryptic feelings hiding under spiderwebs

cast over boxes and boxes of memories you would not like to face,

and certainly don't want to revisit

whenever you look at me and feel the alarms go off,

the boxes tumbling off the walls like earthquakes,

shaking the world you know to pieces,

reverberating the coldest kind of panic -

the urgency with which your scramble to shut all your doors

and drop down your blinds

for the glory of the safe and intact.


I hope it's fun telling your friends

who have wondered where I've gone,

“what happened to her?”

like I have been lost to the world -

and you have the glory and promise of saying

she never really got under your skin

anyway.


All I can wish now

is that if not with me,

then someone else,

will remind you again why we take off sprinting,

letting the wind and the veins feel their movements,

for the keys to the hidden boxes -

to the safe place,

or being,

that opens your heart

like blossoming azalea in the spring

Sasha BerlinerComment