Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Last Night I Sang to the Monster
Typewriter Series #114
Do not fall in love with people like me.
I will take you to museums, and parks, and monuments, and kiss you in every beautiful place, so that you can never go back to them without tasting me like blood in your mouth.
I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible. And when I leave you will finally understand, why storms are named after people.
I am sorry for filling you with beer and bad thoughts and then asking you why you shook. I am sorry for pinching you, for hitting you, for bruising the thin-skinned parts of you. I am sorry for the names I called you when we were fighting. You are not ugly. You are not useless. You would not be better off gone. I’m sorry for almost throwing you out into the street because my sadness was too much for me. I’m sorry for carving my fingernails into your thigh and then resenting the way people asked, “How’d that happen?” I’m sorry for plucking you and knicking your calves with drugstore razors. I’m sorry I let some people see you in the moonlight. They didn’t deserve to know the color of your hips like I do. I’m sorry for leaving you convulsing over a toilet bowl over some boy. I’m sorry I did not thank you for simply trying to take me where I wanted to go. I’m sorry I screamed at you to shrink, shrink, shrink when all you could do was grow. I’m sorry that this apology is ten years too late. I’m sorry that it will probably come again. I’m sorry that I do not treat anybody else as poorly as I have treated you. I’m sorry that I am constantly learning how to love you, when you have never once doubted how you feel about me. I’m sorry.
—An Apology to My Body | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
After the old crew crucified me
I wrote my own testament
But, in time grew to question it.
Hyde the other side of my Jekyll or stay desolate?
The company of these ‘friends’
Was always more of a detriment.
But, no one around to pester you
Is its own pestilence.
The mind’s dull knife, of hearing
It’ll all be alright
A heart that beats as often as it is beaten
So much pain has amassed
That the sound of silence has sweetened
Learning anatomy in the garden of Eden
A soul’s depression is the Immortal’s immortal instrument
Can’t seem to get up
My confidence is impotent
Frequent Amens, making amends
Before the wedding ends and we descend
I hear the Devil’s a lovely dancer
When the shotgun rings
I am dying to answer.
The things we don’t stress tend to turn out best. Trust and let go.