Our Hairy Hearts, a Triptych

When I was six,
I remember discovering
I could dip my finger in glue and peel it like flesh.
It was the first time I saw my fingerprints
and the first time I realized I’m human.

Five years later I felt it again,
when mom crossed the continent
for two weeks
on a binge
and never turned back.

Home
is relative.

Home is where you find the glue
to mend a broken heart
—A broken heart
is a side effect of being human.

———————-

If you say the word human 20 times,
you’ll find it starts to lose its meaning.

———————-

Our hearts,
hairy like a peach,
don’t do well with masking scars;
Pills, therapy, glue
—and you’d better not use tape
because that fuckin’ hurts.

There are so many days
I want to scream like ripping velcro.

riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip
You can cry, but you won’t feel better.

riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip
“Like” his post or it’ll look like you haven’t moved on.

riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip
Displace the pain: Throw yourself down the stairs.

riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip
The pain’s never going to end, is it?

(It will.)

I never thought I’d lose you;
that goodbye would be petals
I could never catch to the wind.
It stings like bees in heat,
but I’m gonna hold on to all that honey,
because it’s so much sweeter
than what’s left
in this hive.

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About Ry

It's so magical, it's gay.
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