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,
to ask how deep.
men in violation,
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
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,
that opens your heart
like blossoming azalea in the spring