i like to think about the way you told me i looked like a picture
pointing to a goddess in the stars on the wall of the cosmic coffee shop
inside the temple of everyone’s worst sins with bad branding.
for a night that felt, to me, like the thread of our light turned to smoke
tangled in a ball of tarred hair, something the plumber would’ve pulled out of my shower,
it was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever said to me.
i don’t know how we got here:
flashing lights and nine months of dark.
i don’t know where you are now
or who you might be in outer space with on any given night,
tabs of whatever calms you down,
or brings you higher.
are you sacred yet?
three, three times:
divine.
gestating god.
maybe it wasn’t me you saw in the acid light
but you, in the future.
stars you recognized from past lives in the shape of my body above you
an illusion inside you
same bed, different song.
bodies bonded with our hearts in the pipes of the dirtiest bathroom I’ve ever seen,
clanging from years of violence that ended up being the whole point
or so they say
or so I know, when i can find stillness and a bit of rope to count on.
thrown down from the heavens shown in the conveyor belt painting with the corporate stamp
manufactured like everything we thought we wanted at that time
including each other.
i should write a thank you letter to the lord of the fake coffee, the fake art
to tell him the truth of our holiness he inadvertently captured in his quest to take my cash for an egg sandwich.
or maybe I should keep it a secret
so that more children of undiscovered curses (blessings) who have massive knots in their curls,
who spend weekends tied together in shapes they don’t understand
but stay in because of the way the edge of your smile feels like a cool drink in september in los angeles
can seek empty nourishment
and realize 9 months later that they were the only ones who were ever really worthy of the sky,
and each other.
as long as they broke their hearts out of the metal systems,
stacked one on top of the other like rusty erector sets of our ancestors,
gushing awake in a twist of fate,
breaking open for blood to use as finger paint,
feral on the ground floor next to the lady in the boring stars,
rebranding her face red,
as everyone stares in fear (or admiration)
thinking we are dead
or psychotic.
but they are the ones who are crazy.
in the time it takes to make a new baby
we have died enough times to be new,
or better
to live
vintage
improved on a higher market
value increased
esteemed
sold to no one but ourselves
for we are the art
and we are free.