The Cool Kid

The poem starts off with a conversation, and sometimes when you’re mildly speaking with someone you find yourself spilling things you didn’t know you could say, and sometimes we distant ourselves from association, and sometimes the person we think is the coolest cat in the room is nothing more than a story that could break your heart. This is the beginning of the poem.

Never trust a pretty boy with light skin.
distant eyes filled to the brim,
smile transforming into a flickering dim,
every breath inhaled scented by sin.
He carries pigments of privilege that taste disgusting
for we are mannequins wearing
situations we find ourselves in.

We smile at sad faces and
the act of kindness given to a stranger
may be seen as holiness, but he
flinches at the sound of someone’s lips
blessing God upon him because
it reminds him despite intentions
good or bad, we all have sinful habits.
A lamb without a Shepard tells himself
“even though I wonder, I am not lost”

Have you ever felt homesick for a home
that you’ve forgotten how to find?
Now I find myself twisting the truth
without missing the details, because he
dances with five different people
while keeping three conversations,
he rolled blunts in bathrooms
and smoked up people he didn’t even know,
and suddenly  he was crying somewhere
only playing house music, but couldn’t say
he was at home; this audible zone
is hardly recognizable while drunk drones,
sip a whiskey sour losing it’s taste and
for the 9th time he gave someone a cigarette,
he noticed the difference between
having a good time, or simply wasting it.
He was a fool with a grin, drinking warm gin,
knowing nobody there, but
somehow was everyone’s friend.

Despite his friendliness
he forever harbors emptiness
like pebbles traveling
against the grain of an ocean floor.
He hides his shipwreck
behind brown eyes burying
benevolence because when
strangers notice the destruction
cast throughout the tide,
it will only hint to chaos underneath.

He cages himself and grooms insecurity
as if cloaking the flame would diminish
a stirring fire spitting callous venom through
the fangs of a cobra and the eyes of a wolf,
but this perfect illusion created is raw
when you come home and face the mirror like
a criminal in a line up for this jail cell
is surrounded by empty corridors echoing
reminders that personal is living with an illness,
and that is the first literal thing mistaken as a metaphor.

Wake up spinning, sea sick,
as if lungs are collapsing and
this stomach churns with gut rot
of yesterdays nauseating medication;
the pills are supposed to help they said,
but if given a plant to care for
can never be accepted as he is only
familiar to wilting; forever
hymning the sounds of survival, but really,
who wants to sing that song?

These are the truths I can never flee,
because I’m too scared to replace all the I’s with he’s
and please, he would never wish this upon thee,
he would never burden this upon any enemy
because he wakes up pissed off, and
swim inside oceans of mourning,
but really, what does that even mean?
I could tell him to learn how to swim
so he will never drown inside depression again,
but he and I both know that tides always win.

I am exhausted of speaking in riddles,
and I wish someone would just cut off my tongue
and give me their lips so I can forget
about the taste of yearning �" even so,
this language of prophecy has become
an act of prayer for us, and we always
find ourselves wishing to be re baptized because
he and I carry a life of recklessness and bad judgement
that have weighed out the fact that society
will strip each layer of privilege when they realize
I love more than I ever could explain,
that without these pills I very well would die,
yet pretending the nurse doesn’t look at me differently
after asking what kind of medication I take,
because being more accepted at bank tellers
reminds me why I prefer the ATM, as I know
this will happen again, for I avoid reflections
because truth is, I’d be damned
if I spilled his blood anymore against
this porcelain bathtub �"nobody wishes
to see someone drown, but we can’t help but stare.

This is the end of the poem.
Never trust a pretty boy with light skin,
for he carries a multitude of masking akin,
and with blood bitter as last night's gin
his shaking hands caress
brokenness with sad violins.
He wrote his will this year.
He wears his mask
because he chooses
to forget tomorrow.