"On the Other Hand"

Every night before I rest my head,

my hand reaches out to grasp something--

anything--

but all I feel is air.

unwelcome constellations pour from my eyes,

for the wings sprouting from my chest have rot

and all the longing in the world

cuts in deep.

Water spills over blood,

a tangy taste

of salt and iron--

wounds from a losing war against my own heart.

Tearstained pillows and sheets drenched with sweat

are my spoils.

shooting through like lightening,

I am crippled.

The end of the tunnel has been blocked

by the dam I’ve slapped together.

And so I bleed on.

Every night,

I reach out my hand,

stretching for those clouds on the ceiling,

but they slip between my fingers.

Then the ceiling comes crashing down,

clouds pouring bloody streaks,

the ocean roaring,

black tears pooling between the bedposts.

My lungs give out

but still I reach out, wanting the pain to end,

knowing that some way, some how,

there is an end to this torture;

wanting a friend,

wanting a dreamer,

wanting a loving smile

and for someone to say,

“It’s okay”

A swamp floods behind my eyes,

baking behind this cocoon of barbed wire;

my feet are chained to the bottom of this slime,

but still I reach out my hand,

and no one takes hold--

yet people still have the gall to say,

“You’re okay”

so my hand instead moves the other way,

muffling the screams filling my mouth.

Every night before I rest my head,

I reach out to grasp something--

anything--

the only thing that has anchored me home

was my other hand.