I heard a rumor,
but it couldn't possibly be true. I heard that
regrets wanted to carve into your skin
as liver spots.
They are the kind of creatures that want to be forgotten.
I’m the kind of guy who represses them.
Unhealthy, I know, but .
I still tell them to etch into my flesh with
a taste, a sound
a smell, a marker
just in case I want to re-embrace.
I can hear and taste
my last three lovers:
Candice was of
candy and bubblegum pop,
burning bourbon and punk rock, and
bursting pomegranates and smooth jazz.
I remember my last two homes:
Brooklyn was of chipping paint and block parties,
bustling speakers and street sleepers.
This memory always goes hazy, ending with
late night gunshots,
but then there was Queens:
rustic with warm wooden walls and
the scent of pastries that plumed from rising bread—
back from when my family loved living together,
before slight screams and broken ties.
when floorboards moaned in pleasure,
I remember the feeling of reading my first poem.
The large crowd
ripped air from my lungs,
they almost made me trip over my words.
My heart could’ve had
a shouting match with any stadium in the world.
Such a feeling was accompanied by
leave a minty chill in my chest.
I try my best to shove them in the back of my head, but
I can still feel them
screaming through every follicle of my flat top
“I happened, I mattered,
what's wrong with me,
don’t forget me, please.”
the same way I did with that crowd,
the same way I did in Queens and Brooklyn,
the same way I did with Jeanette, with Margo,
I heard a rumor that regrets wanted to
carve themselves into your skin as wrinkles
and your memories as liver spots
We shouldn't let our past
carve us the wrong way.
You have to believe that
we should grow old with grace.
We have too many crowds to scream at
too many homes to squat in,
too many lovers to meet.
I try to step through my city streets
Calm in knowing
I’m locking these thoughts up for good.