It Always Ends
The minute hand just struck twelve
at the cusp of my
The now feels never-ending.
Existing lays down on its stomach,
cheek pressed into flat knuckles,
And I just think,
“Share this with me.
Live this mundane Monday
inside my pocket.
Let me tickle your ear with my boring
Come be an inadequate animal with me.
Hold my clammy hand and notice
how un-lady-like it is
to have little hairs on my knuckles.”
Remember the time that Tatiana
shaved her arms in the 5th grade?
And I noticed and said nothing,
knowing it was not my place,
and wondered if I became more primate
just by her choice to shed.
I remember I shaved mine not long after—
loving the feeling of copying everyone else’s
Like I wasn’t wrong to want to.
It seemed like such a good idea.
Still does sometimes.
For awhile I said,
“Someone come hide with me.
Let me suck your thumb so mine
does not get wet.
Sit here so I can feel warmth
Be my only reason for waking”.
Then I said,
“Someone take me out of the dark.
Come link your hand with mine,
pull me to the place that keeps you warm
Wake me up when I’m
sleeping too long again.
Take care of me.
Teach me how to be like
And it didn’t matter who.
Just whoever was crazy enough
to want to.
Now, I’m trying to say:
“I’m gonna find the light.
I’m gonna find it.
My skin is tanning,
I feel the pale taking steps away from me.
I am ready to find out how to make myself
warm in my darkness.
Hold my hand still,
I am fine with my inadequacy.
I am sleeping well sometimes.
I will likely sleep long tomorrow.
I would like to be waken.
I would like you to share my happy.
It is mine.
I would like to be tickled by your
boring human movements,
I am boring too.
I want to forget how normal we are.
How truly unremarkable.
And I don’t need you anymore.
I would like you here.
From now on.
But I will be good without you.
I am good.”
The minute hand just struck twelve,
at the dusk of my hardest hour.
It always ends.
It always ends.