No. No. Not Me.

November. 16. 2012.

This pale light resting on a dusty armchair
makes the loudest sounds that no one can hear,
a creak in the morning while she stretches her legs
a screech as I leave the door,
up before the sun and up before most
still sleeping with dreams caught and seen before,
until your mouth catches steam like that perfect family.

You must be lucky, not me.

and up it comes,
the feeling in my nose and lips,
that only exist in small shifts,
waiting to clock in as I clock out,
a miniature talking giraffe singing your abcs,
one, two, three from the other side of the room,
interrupted only by a complaint of,
“what do you mean it’s no good, aren’t your customers important”
and such and such, well it’s not enough,
“where’s my husband, you see, where are you honey, Steve!”

You must be lucky, not me.

a small note of hope stuffed in the smallest of plastic pinched,
hints of a past that swell up again
that make me think back to last night,
how small I was,
a boy afraid of love,
asking “what’s inside of me”
insecurities of what might be and illusions that I’ve seen.

You must be lucky, not me.

Grown shows for young souls sold every hour,
and a half poured on old shoulders with half smiles still eager,
but no,
not mine,
not me,
it can’t be.

The stampeding of feet moving away from this internal bleeding of teens,
You must be lucky, not me.

Not me, until I’m home again with my twin of kin,
and as she steps out of my mothers room,
I could’ve sworn I’ve only seen her cry a handful of times in my life.
Why, as she sobs into this phone of muted Chinese from our second home,
Why now, and a family is left alone,
just the two brothers, one mother, non existent sisters
But what do I know other than the broken Chinese I pick off the floor
so I don’t step with my feet, bleed

Please, so quickly, he must be free.
Please, so quickly, he’s no longer suffering.
Please, so quickly, he must be free.


You must be lucky, no, no, not me.