He says that I have been making so many metaphors that I am starting to look like one.
I fall in love with those words, before asking for an example.
“Which metaphor am I becoming?”
And to my dismay, he can’t think of a single example.
It seems I’m always intrigued by the ones that say the right things,
but I’m also a sucker for things in writing:
Right now I am sitting in my car and wondering to myself:
Do I want someone who thinks of me as art
Do I want someone who makes me into art?
In case you were wondering, I finally cleaned the yellow glass lantern off my bathroom floor. I learned to love that metaphor, but not as much as the relief of trashing each broken piece. Today, two similar -yet unique in color- lanterns reside in the same place. They hold light and I’m sure they won’t break anytime soon.
I hope they won’t.
-more than a metaphor // refer to 12.03.17
For the last few months
lay a yellow glass lantern
broken in the corner of my bathroom.
People seem to throw away glass once it shatters.
Something, once whole,
now far too broken to piece back together-
but we don’t throw away broken people,
…unless we do?
I realize this is a faulty comparison.
What could I do with a lantern
that could no longer fulfill its purpose-
one that could no longer hold
There isn’t a chance for restoration-
Unlike a human.
Scratch that metaphor.
I will look at the glass as a reminder that
Whether I decide to keep the glass or toss it,
I cannot bring it back to what it was.
I can see it, I can touch it,
I can let the shards shred my skin if I wish…
I can recognize what was
and make room for the next lantern to come.
-I have a problem of making everything into a metaphor.
I thrive in chaos and you crack under pressure,
How I wish you wouldn’t.
-I’m your pressure; you’re my chaos.
At least I mean what I say when I write.
You don’t write; you speak.
You speak rather eloquently,
But what does that mean
Since you don’t seem to mean what
I hold onto your words
That aren’t on pages
Until my pen makes each one eternal that night.
I linger and rest in the eloquence,
But we both know I shouldn’t.
For I am someone who likes words,
And you just talk so damn well.
Maybe you’re afraid you can’t interpolate your words on paper.
However, you can do that with the ones you’ve spoken;
I shouldn’t have been surprised when you did.
-After all, your spoken words were written by me.
Tell me about the comet that destroyed you:
the one you swore was a shooting star
until it came crashing, hauling towards
the inner workings of your castle:
towards your mind.
Tell me about the days you laughed at
the otters and they laughed right back at you.
Tell me about the months that seemed like minutes
because that’s how hard you loved her.
Not because I’m asking-
but because you want me to know you
as much as I want to know you.
-I have comets, otters, and minutes too.
We learn and endure
Expose and secure
What we want to be known yet silenced.
We invite and allure
No behavior demure
But pretend we are coy and quiet.
Can you not speak,
Will I not seek
Something that makes sense in the end?
With no intention to defend
nor to amend
Maybe it won’t make sense in the