Ripped Flannels and Colder Weather

10/22/18 12:03 a.m
(For a fully immersive experience listen to Passenger by Hippo Campus)

I’ve become what I swore
I wouldn’t
In your too big flannels
Those patches untouchable
For me
But only at your request
Your jet black falsely foreign sixes of trees
Attempt to surf
On over
Perhaps not

Let the numbers return
The colors fading like
In skies
When the sun decides I’m worthy that day
When she peaks her nose into the corners of the shadowed mind
Dusts catching
Will I ever

Don’t pretend you don’t
You must
I’m certain
Or perhaps
I just wish it to be true
So true it shall
Don’t bite at my skin
Creep into the pores on my nose
Don’t seep
Essential Oil burns like sun bitten patches

Did the world stop for you too
When you saw
Me, Standing
Surrounded by those we loved
That knew us as us
As the girl in the tree
Begging to be pulled down
The spider bite on her forearm
The choruses of rights and wrongs
And warm sunny days locked out of cars singing birthday songs

Pain begs for words
We beg for life to make sense
For someone to explain to us
We wish to remain children
For as long as we can
Have someone explain all the wrongs
Blend them with red crayons
Tell us the drawing was beautiful all along
Trust the child with the checkered eye lashes
The lollypop of her youth
Trust the ones who know nothing of wrong
To tell us of goodness

But she liked crouching in the hallway, hands over head
She liked it
How absurd
Perhaps we all enjoy the preparation for disaster
Before we know of the reality of what the tortures will bring
We enjoy the preparation to get hurt
It’s more fun, when you pretend it will happen
One of these days
But not now
Not ever

I’m sorry I think of you so often
Because at this point I know I ought to stop
But here we are
Me, as you, on the only bed I can claim as mine today
You, somewhere
I wouldn’t know, Pretending like one of these days you’ll read this poem, and send kisses down my spine
Every lip imprint
An apology
You’ll squeeze my hand
This time I won’t let go
Hey , you got to do it once, so I took my turn
I’ll play all these songs for you — so you can hear what I heard right at the moment of its conception
You’ll swear you won’t do it again
Kiss my neck
Just kiss my neck so I won’t think About this again

Pressure, and heat, slept through the white
Oils on the canvas, creating something worth thousands
Perhaps less, but it will return
The sigh, the small gesture of a smile,
A half-attempt at a cheek kiss,
A warm chest, a worn-out smile
But from my lips,
A surprise.
Yes, it will be. A pleasant reluctant surprise where I shall utter the word

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