a pattern emerging not of need but desperation.
nothing new, not even unknown.
we dig up the truths just to bury them again.
we endure the pain of looking
until we have to look away. the pain of staying
until we have to go. of being gone
until we must return. endless, these cycles, these
jilted paths we mark for ourselves.
i’m trying to make you complicit in my mistakes,
to be clear. are my mistakes not yours?
do you not close your eyes to the truth of yourself?
my truth is that i create myself
in your image, only to remember you are not mine
to reflect. of course that’s not all.
i’m avoiding the desperation, and can you blame me?
i don’t always have the energy or
the inclination to pull myself open. i am not always
careful enough to do it without
pulling myself apart. of course i must admit
sometimes i await the coming undone.
i look at my body and imagine it open. i open
my mouth and pull out my tongue.
i hold it in my two hands and trace the words until i find
meaning. it is not always there to be found.
BEE LB is an array of letters, bound to impulse; they are a writer creating delicate connections.
they have called any number of places home; currently, a single yellow wall in Michigan. they
have been published in Crooked Arrow Press, Badlung Press, Revolute Lit, Fifth Wheel Press, and half empty mag, among others. they have work forthcoming from Press Pause Press, and
Vulneraries Magazine. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co