these days like centuries

i may be sorry for believing
these days like centuries
to be truth, the whole truth,
and that nothing else
will ever be as true --

but i’ve too little eyes
to see the world
from enough angles yet

and, don’t you know,
when they pierce
hatred through your heart
sometimes it looks
too much like war, too much

like survival of the fittest.

i threaten to die
because i want to live
more than anything.

because this race
against people who think
not giving a damn is
the finest form of strength,
this race i can never win

makes me wonder
every fucking night
if they got it right,

if they got me figured out
and i’m a crippled pawn
whose only worth is
entertainment, protecting
their checked king

at any cost.

do i make such a funny
breaking sound?

and should i just have
a place in this world,
a place broader than space
and should i just have
someone in this world,
a single person
more intimate than my own dreams

i might just blossom.

but how
could so many people possibly
have it wrong?

*

i wrote a poem once
about dripping off myself
like melted candle wax

and i’m not sure i meant it, no,
i was just thirteen and i liked
life but life wasn’t to me
just a playground anymore

and i kicked the floor
and i slammed doors
and i wrote things i regreted
right there in the fresh ink

just because
asking for help
still felt too articulate
for me
and my babbling heart.