There is a burnt down house
So sometimes embers I forgot to sweep up
fall out of my mouth when I speak
There is a burnt down house insida me
You lookin at that kindling stickin out my
Don’t pull it out. My body won’t recognize
me without it.
Is it unsightly?
Surrrre. Sure it is.
People don’t like seeing childhood story boards
and third degree issues
comin out the pretty girls they meet.
They want you
To be all Viable foundation and spiral staircase and mowed
down front lawn and
flowers and shit snaking up your cobblestone
walkway an shit.
So when I tell stories
I try to catch the embers and burnt up babydolls
and stunted aspirations
before they tumble out my mouth. But most of
the time it doesn’t work.
Most of the time
People see them and some of them will ask me if I
could knock the house
down; you know, mow it down and erect a healthy,
And I usually get closer to em,
Get my kindling touchin their chest
Ask them why they like cobblestone hips and
flowers for thighs when they
could have singed legs and breasts aflame
Why they want spiral staircase arms when they
got blistered hands capable
of nailing down boards over the unsteady
flooring of their own
burnt down buildings
Why you want to be whole and all artifice and
shit when you could be
Why you want to smooth down the wood when you
could have a
Why you dreamin so small?
When we could heal each other?
When I don’t have to be a fantasy
When my kindlin is making an earnest appeal to
the one so
desperately lodged in your neck
Let him out
aint gotta build nothin
We could just burn.
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