but on your bad days couldn’t you just say
“hey, i’m having a bad day,”
instead of telling me i’m stupid or poor,
or telling me i dress like a boy.
it is a fact that bumblebees have hair on their eyes
and humans, also, should comb through everything they see.
an anchorman is not a sailor.
like the clouds might be a pillow fight.
like my mother says,
“every bird perched on a telephone wire
will listen to the conversations running through its feet
to decide the direction of its flight.”
so i know every word we speak
can make hurricanes in people’s weather veins
or shine their shiny shine
so maybe sometime you could sit beside me on the bus
and i could say,
“guess what, it is a fact that manatees have vocal chords
but do not have ears.
and Beethoven played music
even when he could no longer hear.”
and i know every belt that has hit someone’s back
is still a belt that was built to hold something up.
She is what is safe and is caught faster
with her red lipstick and her kisses on my
cold mouth and so very dry it seems
after, because she is a sea line and
I am sand, dishevelled through and through.
The one I want doesn’t smell like summer
but cracks her fingers when she’s nervous:
she’s an uproar, an upcoming storm
and she sweeps with waves through the sea lines
and her name echoes in my tongue when kissed.
She rips the spines of books and
doesn’t kiss me goodbye, and her
name is the instrument of memory:
her chopped lips are wary of fucked love souls.