THE LOVE SONG OF J. [REDACTED]

a poem from last year, in the style of t.s. eliot

I stand by myself, a thing of fifteen 

My future scared off by the big, gilded screen 

I stand by myself, slowly picking my skin 

As the room fills with people and the lights start to dim. 

I stand, wax figure in a butcher shop 

Sculpted skin against dead meat 

As the people talk of tomorrow’s parties 

And all the love they’ve gotten to eat. 

My diaphragm broken, my heart a live wire, 

I seem to have forgotten how exactly to think. 

I ask God to intervene, to set me on fire 

But God’s on the dance floor, sipping a drink. 

God talks of beautiful things, of beautiful women, and beautiful conversation, and beautiful eyes. 

Will there be time? T

ime to ask, time to be answered

 Time to open doors, time to shut doors 

Time to talk, time to listen 

Time to eat, time to starve 

Time for them, time for me 

I do not think there will be time for me. 

God is on the dance floor, 

Talking of beautiful things. 

I crush the can in my hand until my palm bleeds, 

My warm blood purple underneath the lights. 

I do not know what my wired heart needs 

One conversation, or one hundred more nights. 

One hundred more nights standing alone in my shoes 

Staring at the skin I’ve left battered and bruised 

Listening to the crowd talk of parties and love 

While my red heart repeats to me, “It won’t be enough”. 

I think I would choose one hundred more nights. 

My hand has stopped bleeding almost immediately, 

Wax figure in a butcher shop. 

My diaphragm has not repaired itself yet, 

Wax figure in a butcher shop. 

God is still on the dance floor, 

Talking of beautiful things. 

I drag myself home, 

And hear muffled sounds as He sings.