Backwards
in an alternate universe, everything is different but still quite the same.
in another world, we are born from unmarked graves and only named when we die.
in another world, i am aware of how slick and easy your words are, how everything you touch withers away, and i don’t fall in love with you, regardless.
in another world, i am neither the tin-man nor the scarecrow, and definitely not the lion.
which is to say, i fight back, and make my voice heard.
which is to say, i have a brain and use it.
which is to say, i have a heart, and you’re not in it.
here, in this universe, you cannot be found in the lines of the poems i write,
cannot be heard like an insistent ringing in my head,
cannot be seen behind my eyelids every time they close.
as backwards as it is, you aren’t in the lines of every song i’ve ever dedicated to you,
aren’t present in the night sky like the stars i said i’d pick for you,
not even caring that my hands would burn.
here, the sun does shine brighter than you,
the moon doesn’t smile for you,
and neither do i.
baby, the metaphors here, they don’t fit you.
(here’s to hoping they never will, again.)
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