The Scent of Distant Galaxies

It won’t stop
even when
you say the word,
so close your eyes
and think of distant galaxies.
Try to tell me
that the pain is unreal
even though it
splits
your sentimental heart in two.
It wasn’t you
who set out
down the road.
Others sent you
out to
walk it
for imagined offenses.
You were born innocent,
but the worst part
now is
you’ve
inherited
the guilt of a broken family.
Now
your shoes are worn down
and flooded
to the ankles.
Your toes are tempting
frostbite
and your heels are bleeding,
tracking
red foot prints
all the way
back
down the street
to your parents’ front door
where you
are not
welcome any more.
They promised to
love you
like a baby bird,
but that promise wasn’t stronger than
a televangelist’s word
or a door to door salesman liar
and the respect of
decent
society.
I guess the one thing
the world can’t forgive
is being
a teenager and
pregnant or gay.
Alone
and ruined is all
you ever thought you could be.
And the one
out
on the street,
out
looking for you
at three
A.M.
to take you in
and get you fed,
to hold you close
so long
that you forget
your aching legs
and bleeding wrists,
your vomiting mind
all sick of evil inside
is the one whose name
they did all of this in.
Now that
right there
is some ironic shit.

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2 comments
  1. I was just reading this again, and I wanted to unlike it just so I could like it another time. I love the title, too; it’s a perfect fit.

    Liked by 1 person

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