Age

If you see every age past
in either dark or golden
you’ll think this multichromatic chaos is new.

But nah, this same shitstorm’s been swirling
solidifying and splintering–
its past forms you could never
replicate precisely nor erase completely
even if you wanted to.

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When “I miss you” is too strong a phrase:

Sometimes
I miss what the person I was then
imagined the person you were then to be.

(The way that fantasy felt inside
that mind I’m glad I don’t think with anymore.)

To Remind Myself in a Rut:

Remember:

That your turning points have never come from glowing revelations,

But from those yet-unworded fuzzy pangs of off-ness
you didn’t think would ever emerge from your background noise;
From the feelings that leaked out where they weren’t supposed to;
From the moments when your words stumbled upon the gaps in what they could say, into the wormholes of what you were missing. 

That you’ve come to feel amazing
about things that made you feel like shit a few years ago.
That you’ve come to feel nothing
about things that made you feel like shit a few years ago.
That you’ve come to feel powerfully enraged
about things that made you feel like shit a few years ago. 

That you’re feelings aren’t special.
And isn’t that great?

We’re Here (and we’re also there, and we always have been)

You call it a foreign substance
As if it weren’t running in this blood call your own
And you see it glittering across the earth
But not in the shadows of your own backyard

But can you remember
When they sold you those fears to wear as your own?
Can hardly blame you–I’ve slurped up their sweet talk myself
(But it could never wash out this blood)