sometimes,

late at night,

i dream about breaking in and taking back

everything i had to leave behind.

 

this is not figurative.

 

although,

your disc drive on which is stored

every memory of my teenage years

does seem

an apt metaphor

for all that you took that i wouldn’t get back

no matter how many

windows i smashed or

doors i pried open

while you lay fast asleep in the bed we made.

 

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jd, II

you are young, black, and impulsive.

 

everything I love you for

makes you somehow a threat to this world.

 

just like the bitter, clear air of late winter,

so cold it hurts to breathe–

trayvon was

twelve once, too.

 

counterargument

i squeaked my way slowly down the stairs before dawn,

forgetting my glasses on the bedside table,

forgetting to turn on the lights,

forgetting everything but the dim glow from the streetlight,

the dull, heavy ache of my heart.

 

i never realized, or else, was made to forget: it is a fragile thing,

this heart of mine.

breakable.