Braee's blog

You can tell from the imprint on the bed 

that it was a hard sleep.

That, and the fire alarm tests 

that didn't wake you.

That, and the images of your mother's face

distraught and tired

that seemed so real 

you asked for her when your eyes opened.

and I didn't know what to do. 

On a binge up the vertebrae, 

barebacked you curved back to the bare necesseities.

I couldn't break if I wanted to.

No the embarrassed snap of my own backbone, twirling in broken tension towards the opposing poles of my being

the deafening crack of my own matter, overriding the inept canals twisting inwards to my brain

It kind of makes me sick to think about

the growth some areas of my brain have mustered,

while other expanses have remained utterly, embarrassingly stagnant.

I do not understand.

I do not understand how I came to possess the ability to hurt you, this

It was a really rude thing my alarm clock did

the morning after us.

see my sleep was at least kind enough to stay solid, no silly dreams to dissrupt the aftereffect of sucking the sweet need off of lips that stated otherwise

just moments before.

Never the less,

The Would-be-gentle  slaps but-I’m-begging harder,

Groping  at the fine girth of optimism 

on a bed balanced on the awareness of a sorrow existing somewhere. 

Understanding found in response

to feeling up the bones in your closet, and discovering the confessions etched into their surface. 

Secrets celebrated, because everything should be.

I was on a binge up the vertebrae,

a spinal cord that curved around the climax

I was embarrassed like the time I left my stomach open,

Get out of my meaning and keep to your pockets. 

Your working man blues and your nuclear rockets.

You are polluting the poet's destination--

the ability for freely found 

profound interpretation.

Instead of our soft-served, waterlogged hamster wheel lives 

that have been cataloged and synthesized  

with our reblogged and updated and zombified and cremated senses of identity

I grew up in a place where we wished our drinks would sparkle.

Here we smash the glass to make our own glitter and drink from the cupped palms of versions of ourselves we wish we were. 

Never quite quenching a thirst so lovely, you go down smooth regardless.