an open poem
When I was 16, and so young
I said my favourite colour was blue
because I did not know that there were
other types of girls, and that it was OK
to be different.
On a school trip then, we hiked
several mountains up, too close to the skies
and I tasted the stars, shimmery and sweet,
against your neck, your still-boy-almost-man stubble
burning, burning, burnt
Whiskey sweet, devouring
every inch of my being, I felt the wait
of a million worlds, constellations that crissed-
crossed, always crossed,
Now, at 25, a quarter of a century
older, I say, I’m sorry I never loved you better.
I did not know, then, that there were
other types of loves,
and that it was OK
that the stubble-burn you left
on my burgeoning skin never quite satisfied,
never quite tasted right. I wanted
the burning death of sun-kissed cheeks
and velvet skin, smooth and warm
in ways I didn’t know how to articulate,
and it’s taken me years, of burning,
of almost dying, of imploding
of spinning without knowing, to know
that my childhood books lied.
Now, I know
exactly where we are
in the universe, and it is full
of stray thoughts and
But I do not know, yet
how to express
myself. How to do this, because it is not Math,
it is not a constellation,
it’s a fucking rainbow
and I know now, that blue
is a warmer colour. I know now
that it is OK, but OK is not quantifiable,
for who I, simply, am not.
This piece first appeared on Medium, published by Poets Unlimited.
Thanks for reading the first new piece I’ve written in a while.