Words of Sorrow


he screams his words so carefully, I
wonder whether my childhood feet could
know that even as
I grow, big and strong, the syllables will still knock
me off the swing set. hurdled time and time again
from my rocking chair
rhythms, washed up on the worn wood chip
shore, knees and elbows scraped with a one-inch
slash of red across
my forehead, proof of my days on our
battlefield. the beating of waves against
the ship he built,
(not by hand, he was not that prepared)
started slow and steady, ready to win the race
against my insecurities. drips of molasses fed
the salty crests as
they grew taller and taller until they might have
even swallowed his own six-foot-three frame.
he was unprepared
for the effect on you, on me, on the 743 faces
staring back at him, draped in the black garbs
of mourning.
I was fourteen when I met him, I was sixteen
when I met him halfway, or maybe three quarters,
like pocket change
unless you are the one giving it. he turned into
flames, making hard contact between the space
above his eyebrows
and his chipped-lavender
walls, only
sometimes though.

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