If I keep my eyes closed the entire trip maybe I won’t notice the
freeway or the school or the sidewalks or the coffee shop’s red arm chairs or streets that lead to a bad call or the park or my closet or a drawing I rolled up and placed inside a vase on my white shelf. The shelf is attached to a wall, I kept my promise; it is on my wall, in all it’s reverent secrecy.
From when I can see Lake Michigan
until I can see the Atlantic again, my lids will be sewn shut in some kind of false oblivion.
The airport, filled with climaxes, will remind me of it’s insignificance
but I will still feel the pull of that magnet.
Like a child chasing a ball that went into the street.
I will do my best not to run out in traffic to retrieve you.
Chances are you won’t notice my return, or my departure,
but I will notice your presence coming to attack.
I heat the anger and sadness from my head and treat it like wax.
Melted down into a thin sheet I walk over everyday.
The ground slick but easy to adjust too.
I know you can remove it, can wash your hands just once
and tuck it away some place. But when will you look down and see how little skin you have left. Just protruding bones that you like to sharpen.
I’m calm and I am fearless but I am still sick over the situation that has passed.
I buried it all under that bench.
And I would be shocked if those wild flowers ever grew the same way
after we abused their beauty so severely.
I, who put to much faith in too dull of colors,
and you who thought you were handing me only dirt.
After all of it, you could only give me this?
I’m just picking scabs, don’t worry.
I don’t cling to you, you can’t cling to something so slippery.
You can’t cling to a love you were never convinced of.
I’m just packing, and somehow, every time,
you end up in my suitcase.