You’re fat. You’re ugly.
You’re so lame. You’re so lost.
I’m the best. I’m a star.
She’s a prick. He’s sub-par.
We’re in trouble.
We’re above the law.
They’re missing the point.
They’re killing the doves.
Words you don’t say. Words that have no meaning.
Words that barricade themselves inside your RNA.
You will never get this moment back.
Soak up their squealing, their cries of wanting anything and everything,
right now or never.
Attend to their questions of why this and why that,
one day they will stop asking you,
for help, for safety, for a hug.
They will still want it, but won’t know how to ask.
Words I didn’t know how to say. Words I didn’t know I would say.
Words that slip out undetected by the stewards of politeness.
You’re lonely. You’re bright.
You’re so wistful. You’re like a diamond.
I’m a peasant. I’m adrift.
She’s a blossom. He’s cupid.
We’re on commission.
They’re professing the joint.
They’re spilling the poems.
Words you don’t say.
Words you don’t have to say.
I already know how the story ends.
Eyes open, fingers outstretched. Torment blazing in the wind.
Contentment glowing in your hands. You run down the pain.
I separate the rotting from the grand.
We pulse through the century, flying on the words of shakti light.
— yiqi 17 january 2015 8:04 pm