The Greatest Actor

I want to
      rove your
            craters,

learn
      what secrets
            lie 

154
      million miles
            from home,

make your
      red planet
            my home

until life
      reveals itself
            in you.

I spill
ink
because
my
body
is a
rubber
stamp
and I
want to
leave
impressions
on the
pages.

This is the time
when
I turn on my
lonely noise, when
even the moon
eavesdrops
and the stars
whisper
little rumors
in the
wind.

“Did you hear she’s
been in love?”
                      “It’s a shame
                      she’s grown so cold.”

Why they even
taunt in silence,
chanting
songs
my heart
can’t hear.

you kept your pain
hidden away, like
a child
growing into
manhood
(or something)
never explaining
a thing
as you
stared blankly
at the road ahead

everything was in half,
and I pretended
you knew where
to go as the
soot and stars
weighed you down
while the
stars and moonlight
weighed me down

you threw your heart
in a mixtape
with caution
with passion
with belief in
something that was
never there
(for you)

and I listened—

counting
beats,
comprehending
lyrics

so pathetically

that your only
response
was to
softly hum
along

Clearly her cup contained fire
while mine overflowed with ice,
      and she did not lean into my
                  ambitions, or tremble
      at my fury
                but watched
as a child would watch
the wind
               fall into itself before
           breezing past her face.
She looked up
at a sky so full of envy and so
decidedly endless that
    the moment seemed to
                               dissipate
into the breath of the zephyr.
                              I watched
                  her lips
unfurl in wonder
                      and defiance
                     as mine
began to plea,
                though
                          all at once
               the lightening hit
and our bodies merged
        into violent
                   rapture.

(Note: This was written in collaboration with dirtyoldsixofclubs.)

She glanced it over
smiling, bright-eyed
like I was in kindergarten
bringing home a
portrait covered in
Crayola. 

Something for the fridge
she secretly hoped
before her eyes had time
to really
sink into the page.

With a furrowed brow
she read as if
preparing to decode
lumpy animal faces

except this time

the faces were words
whose teeth were sharp
and obscure enough to bite. 

Her eyes staggered through
line after line, a
fixated bobblehead
bowing at each word.

And when finished
she twitched,
then turned to me
and said,

“Is that

what you really

think

of your mother?”