walk me through
the parade of my youth,
to the crying in dressing rooms
the praying through clenched teeth.
take me (hand
in hand) into the tunnels of us,
the echo of vanity.
we must stroll into the spectrums
of tear stained glass
where my body’s hues unfold like new sheets,
and old colors can be washed away—
(tell me i can change,
tell me i—)
we can be kaleidoscope kids,
stealing palettes from the kind of skies
that hemingway could only dream
about. we can be the voice under skin
mumbling through veins
and patches of stars, saying “beauty
is no news at all”
tell me we are a shitty poem.
tell me you are not a mirror. i
have spent too long looking at myself, i
tell me my scheme is not permanent,
that you can change me, you can change
these colors that i shed like skin
tell me my insides are pretty
and the outside is just god’s shitty paintjob.
i'll listen to anything you say
because your voice is the only artist i know.
it made me and it can tear me the fuck apart.
i am an anatomy study.
i am on paper and i am real
(tell me i am real)
i am wandering between rainbows.
your voice is the highest plateau in the sky
and yeah, i know i’m gonna have to get used to breathing shallow
if i want to stay high.
i want to stay high with you,
tell god to fuck himself.
i want to look at you and look at me
and look at you and never look back.
i want to make wings out of these dead colors.
this is all i have. this body is all i have.
and yeah, i know it’s a bed of nails
but it’s home.