Bloody lips on train rides
They asked me why my hands smelled of cigarette smoke when they knew he died of lung cancer just last summer. I told them irony was a funny thing.
I took the wind and clenched it between my palms: the sky’s breath was the only trace of him I had left. Maybe the smoke on my mouth tasted just enough of him. To keep me sane.
It’s a funny thing, irony.
They asked me why I keep myself so quiet. Why I write so much louder than I speak.
Maybe I’m too hungry. Too curious. Too trapped.
I didn’t trust myself.
I was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Sooner or later I’d tear out of my skin.
Just not here. Not now. Not like this.
I guess I didn’t know how to respond to your absence. To the empty Sundays. To the lip biting gossip that sunk back down into throats as I’d walk in the room. I didn’t know how to respond to your silence. I didn’t know where to put it. There was so much of it. It was so heavy.
I wonder what it’s like to know who’s blood runs through your veins. They asked me why my mouth always quivers when I’m asked to speak in a crowd. I swallow hard and bite my lip, tasting blood. I wonder what it’s like to know who’s blood runs through your veins. I bite my lip and taste smoke.
It’s a funny thing, irony.
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