poetryrepairs 16.08:086

ROBERT WILSON :Sometimes We Never Evolve
ROBERT WILSON :Corona, No Lime

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ROBERT WILSON
Sometimes We Never Evolve 

You constructed every instance of your life with pink text on black backgrounds and Fall Out Boy lyrics spread across your Xanga page. I developed a crush on your intelligence and sarcastic wit, dryer than my sadness was back then. I gave you so much shit for your emo style and tendency to wear pink shoes with bad logos on them but I secretely found it adorable. When we sat by your locker and you told me how much you wanted the system to wilt in your tiny palms I imagined your blue eyes swallowing me and taking me to where the night sky stretched around us like a kind word, where you bathed in the tears of stars while confessing you can finally love as the bars of your ribcage bent and set you free. You've replaced that young rebel with Trump campaign signs on your lawn and the crying stars grew up when you got married and they realized that they couldn't weep for your volition forever. I'm still the love-sick teenager posing as a misanthrope, sometimes remembering how your blonde hair always kissed your shoulders You never had to budge from that and neither did I but on occasion I'll remember how much I wanted to curl up like a terrified snake and sleep for years inside the small gaps of your elusive smile.

poetryrepairs #227 v16.08:086





ROBERT WILSON
Corona, No Lime 

I've seen the scorpions crawl over your teeth and lips in a desperate attempt to live anywhere else. I wonder if you want them gone or if you want them to stay within your narcissistic dream. Your body is a pre-programmed joke, a mass of zeroes and ones with the consistency of flesh: beauty on the outside (bordering on obsolescence) with a million casualties of war buried within. You so badly want everyone to believe you have a halo watching over you but it's really a circle of yellow jackets starving for love you can never give. One day your veins will free themselves from the prison of your wrist and wrap themselves around the crescent moon, dragging it down and placing it at your feet just for you to brandish when you cut your own head off.

poetryrepairs #227 v16.08:086





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