ten years old, typing furiously-
focused on dissolving introspection
into characters, forming dialogue
in a dystopian kingdom of vapor
people & ghost galaxies where
constellations of words make me
cry into pillowcases, sweet sixteen,
because a brother was bored with a
chapter release–novels called The
Atlantian Protactors & Enigma–science-fiction
soul food that climbed itself into oblivion.
& when I started living,
the stories in my head began to blow away
The real life is cold cement blankets wrapped
around shivering bones & hungry stomachs
with warm eyes dissolving into pages of
fairy tales because there are gunshots-broken-
bottles-braids-pulled-sofa holes that are too real
to embrace as family & as home.
& real life is fall afternoons of spice and
simmer & forehead kisses wrapped round
with heartache, at home but burrowing
deeper into the snooze button & empty
social media smiles.
will my shaking hands draw the circle round
again, find the words & worlds
once more somewhere between
manicured, painted fingernails
& broken-knuckles raised up
to hide dark under-eye circles & hazy-heart gaze?