t. e. talbott's Blog: melancholy galaxies

may the ones i leave behind
never lie in their journals,
in their conversations, or to themselves
and call me “too good for this world,”
when the world and i have always been two of a kind.
let it be known that not all unsuitable things
are too perfect or too light to be ill-matched
for the place you were born into;
some of us are heavy,
some of us are undoubtedly flawed.
no, we were never ethereal,
we were mere mortals straining to be.

my past feels more like wreckage 

and despite how they commend the survivor, 

i feel more like remnants to scour. 

my past feels like a crash site 

and although it’s been years

since the most recent collision, 

i’m still writhing in the street 

waiting for paramedics to save me, 

but perhaps they couldn’t 

and i am the ghost 

and the past is my grave, 

or perhaps it’s the ghoul 

feasting upon where i lay. 

but surely death isn’t like dying, 

again and again, day after day;

if i’m merely a corpse, 

where is the peace i am promised 

once i rest in a cemetery?

and if i’m still above ground

and the past is just that,

then, i hope i may rest 

in a bearable future, in a pleasant home, 

before my bed becomes a casket

and my headboard becomes a headstone.

i couldn’t say their name if i tried,
when there once was a time
i spoke it like a body takes a breath;
i never forgot how to breathe
like i never forgot
what a person can mean,
despite how i avoid them
by crossing the street.

when i tell you that i love you
i do not love you with just a heart,
i love you with unsteady hands,
hands that grip your hands,
with fingers skimming
every bit of skin they can.

i love you with a faulty brain,
a brain that learns you to love you,
without the capacity to love myself.

i love you with lungs;
i’m screaming at the top of them,
how i love you so much
that if you were a cigarette,
i’d let you turn them black.

i love you with eyes,
eyes feasting on the view
like i’ve been colorblind
to reds and greens and blues
and now i’m seeing rainbows.

i love you wholeheartedly
but never with just a heart;
i love you with every organ,
each bone, and all my body parts.

to the girl in love with Christmas lights
and the sweetened scent of pine,
the one too small for all that plagued her mind.
to the girl who lived a thousand lives
and ached so many nights,
the one with bones so new,
her heart aged twice the time.
to the girl who believed in forever and after,
smiling through tears to find laughter,
i’d love it if she stopped by,
but i’m afraid i’ve closed that chapter.

needed him more than i thought;
perhaps it’s not a need,
but more so a want.

but you don’t kiss me on a whim
and you don’t say you love me
like you’ve never loved someone like this.
but maybe i want more than i deserve,
perhaps i seek more than i am worth.

a boy is just a boy until
he tells you that you’re pretty
and you fear that’s not enough,
because boys like him deserve
paintings by Da Vinci
instead of sidewalk scribbles,
and sculptures by Michaelangelo
instead of sandcastles,
and chapels like Sistine,
instead of roadside gas stations.

a boy is just a boy until
he smiles when he sees you
and you wonder what he’s thinking,
do boys like him
think of girls like you?
girls with sweaty hands
and heavy hearts
to match their bodies.

a boy is just a boy until
he asks you if you like him
and you laugh like it’s a joke,
because boys like him aren’t liked,
they’re treasured like diamonds
found near craters,
and cherished like good times
when times get bad,
and worshipped like gods
so sublime, they earn scriptures.

if you asked me who i am,
i think i’d play you sad songs instead.
i think i’d rather write you poetry
and ask you if you ate your dinner
or how you are and if nothing’s feeling easy,
i’d let you speak of every part.

i think i’d show you suns setting
and suns rising and stars overhead
and i’d ask you what you’re thinking
and if you like all of this.

if you asked me who i am,
i think i’d sit in silence
and wince at every mirror
or never pick a flower
to never watch it wither
or love each and every animal,
but still regret my dinner.

i think i’d rather tell you
how nice it is to see you thrive
and how nice it is that you’re alive.

i think i’d rather ask you
how you feel when i’m there
and what it’s like when i’m gone,
i could say what i think,
but i’m sure i’d be wrong.

am i something that can be loved far away
or something loved a little less,
the farther the distance?
am i something that can be savored
without being embraced
or will lonely nights feel like
grasping for ghosts that look like
the last time you saw me?
am i something that can exist
in your thoughts
while you live in a place
that i hope makes you happy,
but not so happy that you
start to forget to wish i was there?