kinder, christening

i am good, i think; i am just now learning to be kinder
growing without softening completely
let my guard down
i am blind and looking for magic in the city, on the sidewalks you’ll see me
a tide that pays no attention to the moon
the puppet with no strings
i am not sentimental, you see; i am letting my guard down now
i walk, and walk until my shoes are worn-in
until i see beauty in hugeness too, the inability to capture it
i find it in things you used to say all the time
these things i say now because you can’t anymore
because i did listen to you
i do remember the things you cannot now, not now
that anger sleeps in bed with me
even after i’ve refused, i sort of love it anyways
i sort of can’t lose our nameless sex, what is it? no idea, i say, no idea at all
respire and shutting my eyes
i am trying to be kinder
so that i cannot sense it either; your movement
the shape of the silver sand wrinkling between your toes
even god surrendered

and i can be bad, i think; i am lying an awful lot for me
but i am simple, i do not blame my mind for it’s theatrics; i pray, and try
to overcome the performance of a lifetime
living
except nothing special ever happens, only death
so until there’s proof in emptiness, i find it
in sitting, waiting for a story i cannot write to fall upon my lap
a clean pull of the spine, reaching through me and grinning
they tell me it’s the devil; he has his hands out open wide
but it is only a girl
bearing her soul, seeking me
to say something
you cannot see but you listen, it will only disappoint you
and she is trying to be kind like me

i am proud. i spin around until i’m weak, i listen to the same songs
until they’ve lost all charm
then search the rubble
mumble them over in all of my lyrics, my lines
and i just hope no one will notice
i am just a soul that hasn’t rotted; i’ve got something left to rhyme
and i’ve got all of time to say something
—i work until i’m tired and then i keep working; i am a proud sort of half-person
my mother’s son, my father’s daughter
and i will not give into the greed of precision, we’d all be long-gone
for me to find another thing worth doing
well, i will not pluck words from such obscure time
just to hear
‘mathematical exactness’ written on my brother’s shrine
perfection cannot exist in straight lines. in the curve of your neck it lives
in the vibration of my spine an old crow cries out
and that’s about all there is left; my pride is a trap-door
and you are alice
let my rhyme be a rabbit; he will be just as confused
to find he has made a mistake
and i have been lying awake, listening to death at the door
asking me to be kinder