pearl (final copy)

Written as a part of the IGNITE! Spoken Word Mentorship.  Performed with Jasmine Harvey.  Green: Jasmine.  Blue: Me.  Red: Both.

What do I do?

In your family, the definition of a tragedy is when bone crushing is involved.  Something like a drunk driver and a little old lady.  Something like a car jacker and a family minivan.  Something, something like a newly licensed driver, losing control and spinning into a tree.  The compressing of a body- like an unwanted vehicle, crushed as easy as hearts. The sudden melting of marrow, spreading of soul onto bark like butter and toast.  Glass attacking the canvas of their face like an angry artist good. 

When you tell me your secrets, this is what your voice sounds like.

Did you see it coming?

Your older sister thought that when romance was finally brought up, boys would be involved.  I picture you in the car with her.  Asking her to please not/don’t tell your/our mom and dad as if this was the moment when you threw all your eggshell bones into one basket of a closet as if there is no turning back now, and you wonder-

Growing up in a home with a bible of morals, how could i end up as broken as a rib cage after a crucifixion, when I was raised to be as sturdy as a cross. 

Was there a point when you noticed your joints were bending too far?  A morning when you woke up a little more crooked than usual? A morning when you woke up, covered in the aftermath of your carcrash of a sexuality. 

Surely, we are both searching verses for the perfect answer.  Psalm 139:13 says that he/ you created every part of you/me; he/you put you/me together in you/my mother's womb.  Did he plan on the shin splints that would show up in seventh grade, the ones that would turn into broken legs?  Did he plan on me pulling at skin, until I found answers?  An orientation so crooked, surely not even a mother could love it.  

Maybe it’s just a phase?

How long does a phase last?

After you tell me about coming out to your sister, I face the reality that there is nothing I/you can say.  You tell me that this is your/my life.  You/I don't expect anyone to help you/me with it. 

I thought I could never be more caught by surprise than then.

I never thought I could be as feline in the fast track of your vehivle death trap as when I didn’t know what to say.  Caught between religious and reassuring.   Never thought it could get worse than not having the right answers when your car crash tragedy of a life comes to me and asks what do I do? 

I know this will send me to hell, but I swear to God it’s worth a few fourth-degree burns.  So put down your bible, and listen to your skeleton, it is closer to your heart than anyone can claim to be.  I will never know how to answer your body of questions, but I hear that the closets in this city, they’re big enough for two good.  One skeleton, and one friend to make it a little more comfortable in there.

By listening, and staying.