the third time
By Esme Bale
worshipping a word you barely know
hands on thighs, and lips on nothing worth mentioning
i participate in the grief for someone i have never met
in the dark, hands grab for a shirt
i’ve realized we’ve overestimated the importance of the heart
with each beat, disappointing me
days don’t matter when i have been held yesterday
compressed even smaller, i can breathe again
let go of my fixation on everything that grows
none of this is familiar, but all of this is something that i’ll forget
strip malls and a road that feels too empty
i feel for your hand, knowing all too well this is how you feel about me
empty red bull cans give you a superficial desire to live
back to a state of numbness
you wonder why i care so much
everything is so much sadder on a street where every house looks the same
a place that was made not to be seen, but occupied
hands feeling the walls and feet touching the sidewalk
beauty is an afterthought when you’re in need of security
eyes closed
to feel me and not think i am pretty
every house looks the same
every girl looks the same
but i hurt in different places
if i can’t protect myself, i’ll hold her
blubbering nonsense, barely able to walk, collapsing into my arms, about to vomit
she is my baby
a little girl and her baby doll
your body in the background is but a background
as i stroke her hair
every night looks the same
every girl looks the same
but i hurt in different places
it was dark when i looked out the window
the trees make me feel like i am eight
i wonder if it’s christmas, expecting a family dinner
the confusing largeness of my grandparents’ house
in a bed that isn’t mine
listening to footsteps that seem too alive
i feel the exact same way
this is a feast for the lonely
i know you so well
and maybe you’ll never know me
you drive endlessly on highways
somewhere further, but it all looks the same
and you don’t know her
the curse of a girl that asks and won’t answer why
i shouldn’t be allowed to wander the streets
i just want to stay behind, you can move ahead on the timeline
we’re already not in the same place
but i can’t even stand that we’re living the same time
to go on strike, ‘till my conditions change
put on the radio, a blare of cries
invading parliament, they ask for systematic change
for someone to love me
we won’t give you your teenage girls, ‘till they are treated right
every word looks the same
every girl looks the same
but i will always hurt in a different place
if you write it down
does it really matter where it goes
if someone, somewhere, reads it
is it a travesty if
none of this is meant for me?