Indie's Incandescent Inscriptions

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4/21:


I am sorry you may perceive
this as superficial,
but in truth I only know you
for your shell.

4/22: Endocytosis


I love the way your pale
skin envelops me, surrounds
me - the forest like
your shirt, your shirt
like sunscreen, the coming
summer, like leaves
in the grass and our bare
feet in the leaves.

I love your grease-stained
language, your military hair; I love the navy
blue eyes that light up
when your mouth won’t crack.

I know it is selfish,
but I wonder if you will ever
remember me
when you replace my embraces
with a gun.

4/23: What's Up?


This is what I will say
to the next person who asks
what I’ve been up to:

“Existing and breathing; pumping iron
in more ways than one.”

4/24: Epithelial Nights


I am sitting here, thumbing
through the glossy pages
of my anatomy textbook
because the only way I really know
how to describe you
is through the vocabulary
of your skin.

4/25:

Spoiler

unrequited-lovey poetry wahhh

Here I am:
floating around the vessels
of who I believe you
to be, swimming in your natural
defense, your platelets.

I have lost myself
in your bloodstream.

4/26: Unconditional

I found it when I met the petals
of his sun-flowered
irises, the crosshatches
and scars of his palms.

I unearthed it from
the dryness - the blood,
the dirt he walked
upon.

4/27: Footing in the Dark


i have lost you
like my footing in the
dark; i have fell down
the stairs
of your chambered
heart.

4/28: And That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles


all my life i have heard,
“make him work
for what he wants from you,
make him work
for the cookie until
you wear the ring -
his ring,”

and what scares me
about marriage
is the word “until”, that what if
it is nothing but a climactic vessel
of dried clay, that a synonym
for romance is rising action,
and ‘he’ will rise with it until
the sexual contract is signed,

and then all that will be left
is a broken jar and some cookie
crumbs.

4/29:


the tickle of bathwater
evaporating
from
my
skin

reminds me that I
matter in
percentages.

4/30: The Narrator Isn't Always the Speaker


Tell me - who said
that all poets
are predestined to be selfish, who
said that we are all
stuffed with coarseness and our eyes
only turn inward
and all that we write
is personal.

It’s debilitating, the way we are already
crippling ourselves, exposing ribs,
vessels, capillary walls --

and we stuff our soulish words
of the prospect of heaven, experiences
of hell, and all that is in
between; we hide them behind
pillows and under the covers
when our family enters the room,
because we know this:

they will not get
it; they won’t understand.

But understand this when I say
that the scrawlings of my hands don’t always
belong to the murmurs
of my heart, I have untold narratives
that boil beneath the
thenar eminence, the groove
of my pencil - each is a letter,
a punctuated speck in the
stanza of humanity, and I tell
my aspirations and stories
along with yours.