This is an old one, for a boy named Spencer Slattery, who I don't really talk to anymore but wonder about sometimes.
Others have told me this, and that makes sense because sometimes I only see myself refracted in the eyes
of others but their baby blues never stick
(biologists have documented fifteen colors on the resplendent quetzal):
"You smile when you lie. I know that's not really much of a tell, but it's true. Your entire face lights up like it's fucking Christmas morning or something, and then you tell the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard. It's kind of classic"
I don't know what to believe any more but
I'm a mascot for what you've become, and I love the mayhem more than the love
and I read that off the printer paper and I'm like
damn, I'm an ass and a half but I don't care what you think just give me attention attention attention
(the skin of the quetzal is thin enough to be torn by daily flight)
I've always been able to tell when people were looking at me. As vain as I am,
it's not exactly considered a talent, more a natural ability.
in case you're wondering and I know you were, don't pretend
it feels like a hum buzzing just beneath my skin and
I like to dance like broken ankles aren't just a misstep away and the music vibrates
like mercury on my skin
but that might have just been a chemical juxaposition
(the resplendent quetzal is poorly adapted to cope with its environment)
And at this point in this narrative I'm pretty sure Enda St Vincent Millay ain't got nothing on me because
m candle isn't just burning at both ends
my candle is a firecracker torch pinwheeling across the dirty rhinestone sky
and this town eats its own puppies so as soon as I hit the ground with loafers
that cost more then I like to think about
I am sprinting, I am getting out of here until my lungs burst and my
legs are on fire but I am getting out of here
I am too
afraid
not to
(the last color of the resplendant quetzal is iridesence)
No comments:
Post a Comment