august-hart

We were evaporating in the heat. Fireworks hissed above us and blazed across the waterfront in the colors of liberty. “I need you to do something for me,” you said, your voice crackling in the humidity, and when your hand touched mine I shivered. “You know I'd do anything for you.” “I need you to pretend we never existed.”

OUR PARENTS SPEAK IN FOUR VOICES: Your mother is caged youth and cliffside ribs Your father is alpine tongue and whiskey sours My mother is oak hands and vinegar tears My father is a bruise waiting to happen

Self-love is a disease. I am eaten away in front of you, down to my hip bones and perfect feet. I am a spotlight in this tiny room, walled in by books on modesty, garments of immodesty, and a bed that pines for more than one. I am martyred for my love by those who could never understand; they call what we have “vanity”, and so I am reduced to glances in shop windows and bathroom breaks that last a little too long. I imagine that when our fingers touch, they aren't a space apart. I imagine that when our lips touch, they aren't winter lakes. I imagine that if I get thin enough I can slip through that glass and be with you,

A sound cracks the autumned hush Flutter leaves, and gunpowder scent Ash on the fingertips, barrel to your bridge: you breathe This is the day they told you they were leaving And you took it in stride, hand to your heart The strain twists the muscle: you breathe You leave footprints in the dirt Bloodstained and dark And disappear in the afternoon fog