Promising Weak Ends to our Weekends

When our stomachs hurt,
it was because we filled them with
rhymes that tasted like lemon rinds,
and pocket lint that had shards of stars
in it.

We thought we could say anything,
we thought we could lionize the symbols
of one another that we had so
parsimoniously built
for one another,
waiting for them
to roar
behind cellar doors.
Waiting for us
to crumble
through cedar floors
into limbs that tasted like lemon rinds.

Our cellar doors
were selling us out
to cedar floors--
They were pompous and pad-locked
with bottlecapped chains
that our cap guns
couldn’t splinter.
We fired meticulously into our youths,
spewing SPARKS and POPS everywhere,
hoping to alleviate the past
with a BANG.
I wore the sparks on my eyelashes,
blinking them against your pinched cheeks,
so that we could pretend
to feel light.

Across the greened shade,
there was
no
light--
There were ivory sheets

And misconceived firetruck kisses.
There were masks of flasks
and ourselves,
nude,
behind cellar doors.
Across our bodies curtained
with coats of arms
that held our insecurities
in cap-gun holsters,
there was
no
light.

We promised weak ends to our weekends
before they began,
waking up in different rooms
but in the same bed,

Waking up tasting like lemons,

But feeling like the cosmos smothered
by pocket lint.

Jackson Polluck flicked paintbrushes coated
in love
across the walls of our consciousness
and it looked like blood splatter.
There were asphodels dancing their greened bodies
in holocaust hallways,
reaching for our hands,
but we were buttercups
with butter-fingers
that everything

slipped
through,
promising
weak ends
to our weekends.

We fired cap-guns at the cellar doors
in our stomachs,
because we didn’t want
to hurt
anymore.
We fired cap-guns at the cellar doors
in our hearts,
because we wanted our reflected symbols
to lionize,
so we wouldn’t have to feel
antagonized
behind masks of flasks
and bodies we believed to belong
to us
in separate rooms,
in shared beds.

We thought we could say
ANYTHING,
but our mouths puckered to look like starfish.
Jackson Polluck flicked paintbrushes coated
in silence
across the walls of our love
and it looked like blood splatter,
and we couldn’t say
a
goddamn
thing,
promising weak ends
to our weekends,
promising ourselves
weak ends,
regardless of the day of the week,
waiting for our lemon-rind limbs
to masticate and
turn
on
the
goddamn
light,
so that we could
roar
at our
cellar doors
and lionize
our love
to look like the cosmos.

Author's Note

unfinished

Reviews

[@zeewhykay]

I won't try to force myself to explain. I won't throw empty praises out there.

But I sincerely drifted in this piece, like a raft down a soothing river. Embracing the imagery and the witty remarks, not trying to make sense of everything I read.

Thank you for this adventure in your own literary world.