Question Mark

Please do not touch
my hands anymore,
my ring finger is broken
and I refuse to wear a splint.

Question mark.

Call it what you want.
I am not here for false claims
and cryptic verses,
this heart is hanging
on the rear view mirror
between rosary and debris.
This time, my hands
were on the wheel because
the only way to hear your voice
was to crash the mercury comet.
A skid, crash, flames,
and all I hear is broken glass
exploding into our depression,
cutting open every wound,
inspiring tsunamis and a dead man’s float,
and I tried reaching my hand,
but skin to skin contact will be never.

Question mark.

We’re lucky I didn’t push us in the fire.

We stumble now,
misguided footsteps dismissed
at groggy mumbles and flames,
because I’m not f*****g crazy
but feelings are perceived
as anger, when I am just f*****g hurt.
Despite the carcass, almost martyr
and now burning white flags,
I am still here.

Go figure, a complete circle
has left us in the same place we started.
Haunted houses holding hearts.
Ghosts looming behind corners,
Inside oil paintings on crooked walls,
beneath every creak from footsteps,
they wait.
I mistake their sounds for yours,
and this isn’t romanticism
saying I love you,
this is romanticism saying
I care enough that I worried about your absence.

I know you drown
in these oceans too.
The drowning carries
currents, succumb
stone hearts to siren songs
and is this how it ends.

Question mark.

“How do you build a house?”

“Keep building till your hands bleed, and then some.”

You think saying sorry
once is enough,
but baby I’ve been through
s**t that’s f****n’ rough,
beneath stone hearts
and ocean wings
issues remain complex
than these little things.

I am not looking
for grand declarations,
or someone to erase my sadness,
because my favourite colour
will always remain
the same colour
that always hurts me the most.
All these shades of blue:
the sky, the ink from a blue pen,
the table cloth, the rim around your cup.
The sounds of my mother’s voice.
The silence of conversations ignoring you.

I carry enough wound and flesh,
and I cannot bear anymore blood loss.
Please be delicate with me.
And if you continue to neglect
these lilies and baby butterflies,
then go figure I’ll be the cry baby,
because you’re gonna make me cry, baby.
I wish I could hurt you back.
But I refuse to slice open your sores with venom,
because truth be told
I have watched how moonlight
runs her fingers through your hair,
and for a moment I swore
within deep sleep your body
noticed my absence when I left the bed,
but now I wonder
if you missed mine or his.

Question mark.

“I just need you to promise me that you won’t wake up one day and just not care about me anymore. That’s what scares me the most.”

“I can’t promise you that. Nobody can.”

My heart holds heavy
beneath car engine smoke
and flames doused
with tears.

Smoke taints a romantic sky
leaving red flags and warnings,
but I want to teach you how to swim
within oceans of depression, but
I can’t make myself drown for you.

Go figure.
This is no cosmic intervention,
not even worth this poem,
not even the universe’s
sarcastic karmic virtue.

This is merely me
thinking you would be different.

As usual, toddlers
following tulips
end up getting lost
within wild winds.

Go figure, I’m willing
to come back and find you
because despite not wanting
to let you have me back,
I am still writing about
fake car crashes
and conversations
in my head.

I am still writing about you.

I would always
come back, but we must
build trust until
our hands bleed, and then some.

But damn,
damn,
damnit boy.
Me or him.
Me or him.
Me or him.
Every line in this poem leaves a stone heart cracking a bit more.

Question mark.