The Mercy of Hardwood Floors

It’s November again

And I’ve been trying to be more honest.

There are a lot of things

 I’ve been meaning to tell you.

Like how once when I was younger

I found my mother asleep in the fetal position in bed

Her body strewn over a 

half-folded pile of laundry.

And I stood in the doorway and smiled

because I had never before imagined what my mother

 may have looked like in the womb.

That same night I prayed to a god I didn’t believe in,

Asking him to tell me something true.

Knees on the ground,

 My hands on the bed.

First learning the mercy of hardwood floors.

There are so many things I’ve been meaning to tell you.

Like the way I’ve been building a future

 Out of diary entries since the age of 11.

How I was born into innocence 

but still poisoned with the sickening desire 

to be called a Caravaggio.

How my body,

No matter how it contorts in the mirror

Only knows the impression of my own two hands 

And is still as fragile as it ever was.

The year is almost over 

And I’ve been waiting for some kind of release.

I’ve been thinking of ways to slow down.  

I’ve been trying to write

 something true.

Even though 

i was only given

 one tongue

         And still no time to spare.