Unfashionable like Always
I’m wearing last year’s love;
it’s sticky and residual:
washing up and down my arms, entwisting between the spaces of my spine, filling my ears like bells of cotton.
I’ve always been unfashionable;
walking down streets, forgetful of the courage it takes to pull back the shoulders:
sensing bombast; looking down.
When people see my skin, they can’t seem to look through the clouded varnish of a one-sided affection:
and so they look away.
The clarity of my eyes seem to frighten them; pieces of molten blue-silver, screaming with woken and trapped consciousness: a bygone taste.
I wash myself every day: roughly striking through caked infatuation.
It seems, however, to stretch and recongeal as fast as I try to remove it.
An animal in it’s own right.
And so last year’s love becomes this year’s burden;
and perhaps it’s not just a lack of courage preventing me from standing tall.