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Description

you think you’re an enigma and maybe you are
maybe you aren’t. i think you laid out little road maps
to decrypt yourself. gave us photos of your veins and
waited for someone to bleed the colour of it in.
from the snatches of your life you’ve written
the person you were at seventeen
the journals and the blogs and the fire that burnt out
with its embers still whispering to you even if
none of it seems coherent, none of it is
the epiphany you were named for but you are
waiting.

you think you are an enigma and i love you for it,
you need your “gotcha” moments, you spin out
ballads of beauty and then end the poem with a
“surprise, this one’s about my cat” and
it doesn’t matter how many times you do it
i never see it coming

and you think you’re bitter and you think you’ve hit nowhere and
a lot of your poetry is encased in the depression of lostness and
being stuck in a rut and the opposite of water under a bridge, just
the way these things are. you think you give off despair but you don’t,

poems for ezi and strange bits of hope embodied even in the grieving
you’re a person of ghosts and secrets, of silences and
you and i are alike because we both talk too much and say too little and
fool people into thinking that our iceberg tips are the complete truth

and even if you don’t see it i still believe that you are inspiring, i still
see those things in you – the goddamned diva, the fabulous dandy fag badass,
the potential you second guess and sometimes disbelieve, to destroy everything--
and create a whole new world. i see it in you, because you saw it in me first.

Description

you think you’re an enigma and maybe you are
maybe you aren’t. i think you laid out little road maps
to decrypt yourself. gave us photos of your veins and
waited for someone to bleed the colour of it in.
from the snatches of your life you’ve written
the person you were at seventeen
the journals and the blogs and the fire that burnt out
with its embers still whispering to you even if
none of it seems coherent, none of it is
the epiphany you were named for but you are
waiting.

you think you are an enigma and i love you for it,
you need your “gotcha” moments, you spin out
ballads of beauty and then end the poem with a
“surprise, this one’s about my cat” and
it doesn’t matter how many times you do it
i never see it coming

and you think you’re bitter and you think you’ve hit nowhere and
a lot of your poetry is encased in the depression of lostness and
being stuck in a rut and the opposite of water under a bridge, just
the way these things are. you think you give off despair but you don’t,

poems for ezi and strange bits of hope embodied even in the grieving
you’re a person of ghosts and secrets, of silences and
you and i are alike because we both talk too much and say too little and
fool people into thinking that our iceberg tips are the complete truth

and even if you don’t see it i still believe that you are inspiring, i still
see those things in you – the goddamned diva, the fabulous dandy fag badass,
the potential you second guess and sometimes disbelieve, to destroy everything--
and create a whole new world. i see it in you, because you saw it in me first.