when I was nine my mom
told me what it was like
to die, floating she said
nostalgic stars in her eyes she
told me she tasted the dew drops
of the sky and danced barefoot
on the clouds and I was too
awestruck by the idea of becoming
the sky I didn't hear her
tell me I'm the reason
her lungs were still converting
oxygen to carbon dioxide since
that day my fascination with
floating has grown but
I've become far too busy
counting syllables and my head
is filled with mindless
poetry the irony tastes like metal
sitting in the back of my
throat
choking me but at least
i'm not floating some
people aren't so lucky some
people are little girls who hear
constant screaming in their
heads and she's told she's
not allowed to feel
this way because what does
she know she hasn't seen
the world she is mocked
for her screaming
she is told she doesn't knowledge
what it's like she hasn't
experienced the world
at it's worse as if that will give
her hope that
things
will get
better
and there is
a man who would be praised
for his bravery if he had been
at war but he wasn't so he's
a coward because it's only
acceptable to feel a vacuum in
your lungs if you've worn a gas mask
and he should be grateful because
he was born lucky but
he doesn't feel
lucky
there's a static in his head in
his ears that tells him he's
not lucky and he feels wrong
and guilty for feeling wrong
and he enters a cycle of guilt
and fear and hate and he was
not good enough to save these
are stories of people that
were not good enough to save
because we were too busy
telling them to
save
themselves
I often imagine that feeling
of floating and the
sensational wave of relief that
comes when there's no longer
any weight on my heels
but i am too busy counting
syllables in lines that just
missed the lives that
were not
good enough
to
save