twisted old drafts

 “𝘪 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴; 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘩, 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭; 𝘪 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 '𝘦𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸.”

you are the stained glass i stared at every sunday for eighteen years. you are the kneel and bow at the end of a pew; a sign of the cross and a mass card with tear-blurred ink. you are the fractured, gasping sobs echoing through the basement of a funeral parlor in brooklyn; i knock on the door and suddenly, you are the silence that hides grief by swallowing it whole. you are blatant refusal to turn the knob.

i am all bent safety pins and picked locks, never quite sure what ‘no’ is supposed to mean when it’s your lips that form the words.

“𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥. 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘸.”

everything is a metaphor when nothing is real, and i was never anyone’s cup of tea. i’ve never been someone’s line of blow or shot of whisky, either. i am the slow song that crept onto the playlist and killed the party. i am the kind of biting humor that’s easy to misunderstand; that outfit you never wear, but can’t get rid of. i’m the time you thought you had before realizing you’re already late.

i am unsympathetic, too much of too many things; and every time i’ve felt like i was falling, words have been the borrowed wings carrying me safely to the ground.