2022-03-20 #poem-a-day#writing/poetry
the dreams that parents have for their children sand too fine for my fingers slipping through grimy spoons gushing into glass coffins, shovels gasping at the air, at false holds, at nothing at all. tiny daggers digging for treasure branded in my skin, nicking my belly open surgical cut by surgical cut, ticking off my lost seconds, life passing through my blind throat & flooding out my agape navel the way waste gushes into streams from a plastic factory, the way plastic devours every light given & breaks finally, missing pieces with even scars, sullen alarms reminding me what it feels like to lose everything passing before me, how soft a thousand cuts can feel over a lifetime.
the dreams that parents have for their children sand slipping from my fingers past my grimy spoons gushing into the glass basin, shovels grasping at the air, at false holds, at nothing at all. the tiny daggers digging into my exposed skin, nicking my belly open one thin cut at a time, ticking off my lost seconds, my meals passing through my throat and flooding out my agape navel, the way waste comes gushing out of a plastic factory, the way plastic devours any light given to it and breaks finally, broken pieces marked by even scars, mementos of what it feels like to lose everything passing before us, how soft a thousand cuts can feel,
over a lifetime.
sand slipping from my fingers
they’re slipping past my grimy spoons gushing into the glass basin, shovels grasping at the air, at false holds, at nothing at all. the tiny daggers digging into my exposed skin, nicking my belly open one thin cut at a time, ticking off my lost seconds, my meals passing through my throat and flooding out my agape navel, the way waste comes gushing out of a plastic factory, the way plastic devours any light given to it and breaks finally, broken pieces marked by even scars to remember what it feels like to lose everything passing before us, how soft a thousand cuts can feel, done over an entire lifetime.
the sand grains are too fine for my fingers they’re slipping past my grimy spoons gushing into the glass basin, shovels grasping at the air, at false holds, at nothing at all. the tiny daggers digging into my exposed skin, nicking my belly open one thin cut at a time, ticking off my lost seconds, my meals passing through my throat and flooding out my agape navel, the way waste comes gushing out of a plastic factory, the way plastic devours any light given to it and breaks finally, broken pieces marked by even scars to remember what it feels like to lose everything passing before us, how soft a thousand cuts can feel, done over an entire lifetime.
the sand grains are too fine for my fingers they’re slipping past my grimy spoons gushing into the glass basin, my shovels grasping at the air, at life, at nothing at all. the tiny daggers dig into my exposed skin, knick my belly open one thin cut at a time, ticking off my lost seconds, my meals passing through my throat and pouring out my open middle, the way waste is expelled from a factory for plastic, the way plastic devours any light given to it and breaks cleanly, broken pieces marked by even scars to remember what it feels like to lose everything passing before us to one big glory hole of falling sand.