Drugstore Perfume [Poetry]

homemade ambrosia

homemade ambrosia

september10twenty21

divinity is never within our reach. we always look for ways, for pathways. nobody seems to realize where the true value lies. in chords and words and skin and promises and life. in breath and air.

god didn't feel real when I was young and innocent, and aging feels like the progress of the realization of the world. I felt too old back then, and even then I could not see the daggers inside my skin. my tearstained blindfold. the fabric's all but rags and I am blinded by rage and misery.

still all but screaming to be seen. I've always joked, people close have even noticed, that I blend too well. maybe to a point that isn't blending. Elie Wiesel said that indifference is worse than most scathing evil. I understand when I look into the mirror and feel like I'm drowning, when I look into most other eyes, it's dipping toes into water.

and there's only one person that matched that drowning in such a specific way. but they are gone. at least, they are gone in the way that matters. I always end up back here. missing you again. realizing and tumbling.

because it felt like a blessing, and the child in me still cries and begs and asks why. it still feels like yesterday, like last week was the playground and promises and almosts. I constantly wonder if that fabled string connects us, and who truly starts tugging first. something deep inside knows more than I do, more than I ever have. I've followed reluctantly, but one of those daytumble epiphanies was that I was meant to follow.

somehow, we create our own little divinities here on earth. through hurt and brutal empty. our own form of worship.