Poem: April 3

Untitled: I Collect Things

I.

I collect things. broken humans, conch shells,
lullabies that no one has ever sang, and I
stack them, around my heart, underneath my ribcage
stuff them into the crevices until there is silence
Listen now, I must tell you how I feel.

II.

Leave it to me to expose your broken edges.
you will stand near me unaware and
become the landing of a hail storm. It’s just what I do.
I am in this business – sanding, rounding you out
you must dull the knife before it sinks too deep.

III.

I make no apologies to you. Except that is a lie.
I know no other way to elicit trust than to prostrate
myself over your ineptitude. Cover you up with
my incessant regrets until you are sainted and pure,
support every growl with the grace of my whimper.

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2 comments

  1. I like this piece. Your phrasing draws me in and even after multiple readings, I am still unsure as to whether the protagonist collects these pieces of us out of kindness or cruelty. Somehow, the possibility that it could go either way lends more power to the words and leaves me intrigued. And that line “I know no other way to elicit trust than to prostrate myself over your ineptitude” contains such praise and insult in such a short space, that I can’t help but smile at its perfect form. Good work.


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