Flaring out prayers from his lips
hotbox our love in the backseat
his grin holding a thin paper strip
with Greek Gods on his sleeve
another future passing by
he only smokes so much to die
I ask him what he believes in
to sin against all odds
he says someone who can save him
and like me, he never believes in God
but I believe in angels –
Arch, fallen, guardian
all with halos bright like neon
The sun seems 6 billion miles closer
when it blows lukewarm kisses at my skin
he would leave a third-degree burn on these feathers
if humans' bones were made of flint
our false heaven has burnt to cinder
who's the Saint and who's the sinner
Every boy that I tried to save from a storm
says I'm the one who needs salvation instead
he didn't set himself on fire to keep me warm
I'm just a paper body dancing around my death
homes are never meant to stand beside volcanoes
and this is not a poem about angels
The first time I saw a lioness cry,
it was weeping over a fawn that wandered away
from its mother among the pine trees.
Amber spots that looked like an extension of the stars,
damp-eyed and bewildered,
shuddering at the hunters' snares.
But the beast was afraid of losing its momentum
and she leapt at her prey like a switchblade.
The first time I saw my sister cry,
she was in fear of the bear trap between her thighs
that was buried to hunt forsaken children.
A belly full of poetry and a heartbeat full of songs,
a nameless face with rhythms that mocked her –
it could taste the soil that stained her hands.
But she hummed apologies over and over again
until it came out like survival.
Every wonder what happened to the boy I told you about in Synthetic Narcotics?
We'd kissed in the car the night before we promised to never see each other again.
What I'm about to tell you is not a love story.
It's not a story about love, either.
I won't write about how often I think of his voice;
or the way his dimples made him look like a little boy;
or how tenderly his fingers intertwined with mine;
or the loud pumping sound my heart makes whenever he's on my mind;
or the times when he made me laugh about the silliest stuff;
or how we pretended all of that was enough.
This is not a love story.
This is not poetry, either.
I won't write about how he said he wouldn't do cocaine ever again;
or how I found out he powdered his nose the next day right after that;
or how he said he didn't want to drag me down;
or the time he said whenever I needed him, he'd be around;
or the drugs he took that broke my heart;
or the synthetic love that had torn us apart.
This is not a love story.
This is not an apology, either.
I won't write about hearing his name on the news;
or the time he went to court for an appeal;
or how devastated I was that I couldn’t be there;
or the way he tip-toed and looked for me everywhere;
or how I didn't even visit him for once;
or how I'm just scared that seeing him will leave me undone.
This is not a love story.
I won't write about how I tasted stars that night.
I won't write about how he asked me to run away with him.
I won't write about how I almost said yes.
I won't write about how I lied to everyone
and myself.
We were not in love.
This is not about him.
This is not about us.
I won't write about how I could've saved him.
I couldn't even save myself.
This is not a love story.
This is not poetry.
This is not an apology.
This is a lie.
This is everything we denied.
This is goodbye.
