Hard Left

The shredded backbone of reality mimics my everyday struggle to find meaning in the half-shaded glances of others.

I’m a conductor of electricity, train wrecks, and orchestral movements. I’m a lightning rod bolted to the roof of my own memorial library. I am an unshielded wire looking for insulation, looking for my charge to be grounded.

I’m an exposed nerve trying to twist away from the cold air that’s driving me hysterical with pain.

I am lessons culled from double-jointed experiences named after flowers and months of the year.

I have a national anthem running backwards in my head for hidden messages leading back to the inception of my country.

There’s a needle being driven hard into the grooves of me making my words louder than socially necessary.

I’m a screamer. More than my teeth chatter.

My freckles are a map from bloody raindrops that stained me on my way here before I was born. They come out in the sun like a secret message written to a lover in lemon juice.

I’m the candle flame that flickers low enough for a kiss. I’m a cradle carved from saplings. My soul is triplets. My skin is a promise wrapped tight around the bones of my dilemma.

I have no armour, only evasive maneuvers.

Hard left.

Dive.




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