if i let my tongue burn, sometimes
i think i would die. sometimes
i think i would die if i let you
fall under my breath where i hide
my bread crumbs.
it’s because they didn’t teach me misery right.
they told me it came in a pocketbook.
they told me the leather was real.
they told me it was indian leather and that because they’re all hindu,
i would be safe.
my sanity kept me on edge
for the moments-after but every moment of before,
during the only moments i knew,
because the cultured fact was that my aura had faded
with my ignorance and repairing it meant making friends
with a shoe-makers daughter.
and if she is a marine biologist now,
i can’t care to know.
if i did, i would be foolish–
those are my eyes.
theirs would speak, “you crazy!”
surely rooms boarded in egg-whites sound soothing
nothing feels worse than spirituality bruising.
i should be purple by now! but thank god
the colour fades,
it was all just in time before i got fired.
maybe i should’ve been a marine biologist.
but those aren’t the type of aliens i associate with.
that’s why i ran away; to be one of my own–
an alien in india. they made my tongue burn,
i was dying.
i was crazy.
i admit it.
now i know it’s true:
if i let my tongue burn, i would die.
i would die.
but i don’t want to. not in anyway,
but i will and i am.
at least, forever as i know it to be.
and this time, everything is so crooked and
refluxed, if i could just adjust everything
maybe the cows wouldn’t have to die.
when i ran away, i wanted to know for myself
that they were safe. because if they were safe,
i was real.
but they’re not all hindu there.
even when they are, they still lie.
they hide away in hotel rooms lined with cocaine-white walls
to host a feast so massive, they have to loosen their saris.
it’s so disappointing.
it’s so disheartening.
it’s so disgusting, i couldn’t swallow.
they were rebelling as fools would,
“amateurs,” i’d say.
(as if i understood it).
i regret now to say that i’m not an amateur,
i just really, really, want to feel that misery of a true fool.
the one they never taught me.
the one that makes it okay to be full.
the one that makes it okay to be a marine biologist.
the one that isn’t money wasted but maybe just that;
the happiness of a fool.
i just abuse thoughts of it now.
and everything in-between
because i’m not an amateur like that,
i’m just fucking scared.
scared of my failure,
scared of my potential,
scared of my creativity,
scared of my incompetence.
i’m scared of myself so much that i’d rather die
like those cows
that are probably in their bellies,
sitting on stomachs
like you do your couch.
i want to slit my throat.
i keep feeling it pulse with sandpaper lovers
but it’s not enough to choke me.
so i just hold my breath until i need a cigarette.
those make me exhale,
they force me to live for death.
hell, if i keep this up,
maybe they will cut open my ribs for you to look inside.
then you can follow the breadcrumbs and see
all of the fear that i hide. if that’s the case,
carry some in that leather bag of yours and feed it to me
in our afterlife.