three green oak trees lined the street across from my balcony
that same place she first handed her cigarette to me
still imprinted with her dark red lipstick
knowing I would eventually taste it
along with that sapor of cheap red wine
that night I was hers and she was mine
a love endowed and governed through time.
day by day, outside grows colder
the trees leaves change in colour and start to wander
day by day, our hearts grow fonder
though eventually, the falling leaves dance like ghosts in the street
like diligent thieves, they stole her away from me.
now all I know is
solemnity
and all I see are
trees
with no
leaves.
it’s been months and I'm still feelin less like me
been smokin more than usually and can't stop listening to RnB
sleepin is never easy
haunted by dreams and memories of histories
histories of magic, romance and ancestry
histories where real men were born from matriarchies
but I wake up to a contrast
a deep-voiced lost boy
forced to live in a heteropatriarchy.
still feel it in my dreams, the history
thrown in chains by foreign names
forced a discourse that says: emotional pain does not equate to being a strong male.
I guess a teardrop cannot travel through a suit of chainmail
probably had ancestors that wore that shit,
high probability of being called a bitch for expressing all of this.
What choice does
a deep-voiced lost boy
have?
fuckboys don't cry
fuckboys lie
fuckboys don't even have a heart inside.
so then I asked why?
why is it when she left it killed me
but I only wished I had died
that way I wouldn't have realized,
that pain travels in circles
and never in straight lines
if I was born before history - as a real man
I would build you a house full of sunlight
with no glass ceilings
and you could surpass my success
without damaging my feelings.
I still wrestle with the words
man
and
meaning
in the so-called 21st century
now I can barely stand tall in sight
so I threw away my spine
now every kiss tastes like spite
doused in cheap red wine.
By Dakota Feirer