my neighbourhood is burning down,
raging flames
caging lives
and i stand at the end of the street.
chaos is a pretty thing;
when you can’t hear the screams
or the cries
or the silence of the girl
held in her mother’s arms.
when you can’t feel the fire
kiss their bodies
and threaten to grow,
if you go near.
when you can’t see the pain
etched into a face,
you’ve seen so often wear a grin.
an all consuming arson,
paints the walls black,
and the streets red,
and your vision gray
and i stand at the end of the street.
watching people i only know
by eyes,
lose their meaning,
and lose their living,
but what am i to do?
i can’t look away, but i can’t look in;
i can’t bring back noise
to the throat of that girl
or paint the walls in color once more
or breathe oxygen
into their lungs as they give out.
guilt fervorously dances on my heart-
a hand reaches out to me,
from a pile of hands-
a grotesque act of hope
and because all living things are vile
like the ones who set the fire,
like the ones who ran when the smoke came,
like the ones who take pity,
sitting in their houses,
watching movies and music.
i take a step back,
and only just watch and shake.
i can run away, after all,
before i’m caught in the flames
and in my house
and in their houses and
arms and pile.
chaos is a pretty thing,
when you don’t stand,
in its centrefold.
when it’s a choice that you can mute,
and turn off and forget.
my neighbourhood is burning down,
and i stand at the end of a screen.

i suppose then,
this is where we diverge
a long way,
journeying with you
here we are to sing a dirge
parting ways,
ahead, still miles to go
beside each other, a faint goodbye
perhaps a mellow woods
perhaps the clear sky
but not the ocean could take my mind
not when guilt makes
apples hard to bite and swallow
and i wonder if you know to read your map
and i wonder if you know to ration your food
to rest your back against a tree,
not trudging with fruits, from weeks ago
in your bag- it could be poison
which trees to pluck from, will you know?
should i turn and walk back to you?
but the picture of you beside me,
the claustrophobic expectations you had
for the way i took my steps
to the way i chose to breathe
so i leave behind that thought with you, and
i propell on forward
with your ghost on my feet
to forget you, my mind nodded not, so
i try to remember
when i met you at the convergence
what made me follow your path
and then what made me long for mine
perhaps, in your somber means in
treading life,
i saw a spark of starlight,
i bathed in it night and day, the light dimming
the closer i looked though,
it was, now that i recall,
wind blowing campfire ash
even so, i knew, that alone
can set this route on fire,
leaving me and the rubble behind
perhaps that fear, or perhaps
the land was foreign to my feet next to you
and our paths seem only molded for one
only the stars to remember our names
when our heart makes our feet stop,
so for reasons, quite many
i had to part, to my own way
grateful i am that you trusted my hands
to pick you fruits
and mourn i will,
that they will never taste so sweet
in my mouth again
the price i pay for this bitter end
but also, those days so true
and i suppose then,
we were meant to diverge
a long way
i wish you courage
to go on, left.

no one really likes anyone
and everyone is pretending
so just smile when you need to
and crawl when you need
because pitiful things
are hard to look at
‘what if that was me?’
cover that with money and
gold and colors
and flavors
and scents
don’t smell like the subway
don’t smell like the streets
but if that’s french perfume
people will hug you to feel your
wallet against their thighs
but why give when you can get

smile smile, show some teeth
they might hate you, only you
perhaps they’re pretending
solely around you
so pull them in but not too in
or too close
or they’ll smell the road you took
to get here, to get near
it’s you against them
but you have to belong
better numbers near your name
but hide it in your bag before they look
it’s you against them
and the whole world
bigger numbers under your name
but hide it in your second hand sofa
look how big it became but it’s rough
and it’s odd, quite tacky
better than the poison
their envy will bleed on it so

smile smile, make them believe
that they can touch you and taste you
that you’re like them, but better
like a painting, an ornament
you’re a part of them
you’re born in the same sand
covered in your mother’s blood
the only time you smelled like life
but today, you have to
smell like them
precarious and cautious and
look at how they live before you live
this is your one life
so learn before you leap
or they’ll bring their pitchforks and torches
and then you can never be them
and no one will like you
because no one really likes anyone
and everyone is pretending
and you are pretending
and you are covering
your stink and envy
with a college degree and a smile

smile smile, wear a soul when you breathe
’cause you’re empty and
tired and loveless and cynical
and you’re just like them
yes, you are just like them and yet
nothing like them
and you are nothing like you
and you don’t know who you are
hell, do they know who they are?
they were busy watching you
and me and her and him and them
and so we’re all the same
we’re all nothings and nobodies
and we’re ready to like anybody
or pretend to
and this is our one life,
tell me, were all the smiles worth it?

my words mean nothing,
and chalk can be erased.
perhaps in the dust i inhale
is every belief i once held.
every morning, a new room,
spotless and clean.
they write so quickly,
and ink bleeds on the tables;
i see a new stroke each day.
to mean so much,
to never disappear when you leave.
their wood is marked,
the navy blue and the bright red.
eyes follow my hands,
my fingers make figures for your memory,
forget me not, please,
if i don’t write tomorrow.