I first felt myself on the cusp of exodus
when monsters beneath my bed,
became a matter minuscule to monsters in my head,
prowling atop a back-burner of my mind,
at 3 a.m. in a kitchen glowing dim.
I felt it when I saw my chest as a cello,
with too small of a sound for anyone to find profound.
When my body became not just a sack of dust,
but a vessel for lust’s progressive masterpiece,
a mechanism for man’s speech.
I felt it when my world was an expanding balloon
on the edge of a pinprick,
felt it when sugared summers sprinkled in sadness
were simmered in blood so thick…
I felt it when sunburns were licks of fire,
kisses of subtle wrath
of untethered desire,
inflicted by desperation’s ambition.
I felt it when I tried to chase him into a storm
and unfold him like a paper plane,
to smooth out the wrinkles,
to find it all a deed done in vain.
I felt it when the sky gasped and turned to boiling soup,
when home became my friends,
and empty shopping carts,
and bustling minds,
and dreams strung out on laundry lines.
I felt it when the taste of trust grew faded,
but still I reached down hallways of her mind
to find her hand,
to hold it in the dark that made us blind,
to whisper of a promised land.
When the exodus began,
I knew it as only the title page not yet open,
spine not yet broken,
a youth not yet shaken.
Now I see it as a parted sea
between miles of painkiller smiles
and masked dignity.
Thus begins the end of my lemonade years,
the exodus of innocence tied to sugar,
where my violent delights meet their violent ends.
Thus my prologue here begins.
(this is an excerpt from my upcoming poetry collection Essence of An Age)
(image curtesy of Pinterest.)