The Process

 

Maybe we all hurt, all fell from heaven

Or realized that the top, the bottom

Kissed altitudes on ritual cheeks

In the have a good morning

Have a good afternoon

Have a good evening

Type of way, the type of way

Of the friend that never leaves

Or at least hasn’t yet

That will hurt

What doesn’t, what doesn’t

 

My storm-cauldron is brewing

While brushing my hair

In a stranger’s powder room

I ask the seashell hand soap,

Do you hurt?

All my nerve endings start

Fusing into the fused fuse

Of the ignored hello’s and goodbye’s

That get misplaced off tongues

And with a voice laced with lavender

The bubbles popping off my hands say,

Pain is the process

 

 

Published at Soft Cartel