The Contours of Me.
My name was tomorrow
dark haired in a sweaty t-shirt
shooting looks at you from over there at the
counter,
deciding whether you actually
thought like the book you were
immersed in,
whether mocha was how your
thoughts tasted like or was it just your
caffeine fix.
I was one, two, three up until
hundred, a face upon all the
counting sheep you would try to
imagine to sweep your insomnia away
under a deluge of will.
I was your distraction and a
constant, a barrage of
counter-intuitive seriously important nonsense that made
you
feel blurry around your previously defined edges.
I was poly, queer, atheist, agnostic,
religious, spiritual, loyal, infidel
all
at once,
blowing my mind,
blowing
yours, blowing both of us down into
a well of deliciously addictive
confusion, otherwise named
“freedom” from our label-making
brain.
I was your outlaw, whom you
needed to protect from the society
but also, the bodyguard of your mind,
reading letters to your memories
which I found locked up in dark
places but which deserved to frolic.
I was your Stockholm syndrome’s
instance, locked in a beautiful dance
with my cultural captors, in love with all the
rings in the smoke that comes at
the end of burning my lungs alive.
I was maybe your dream and
your nightmare juxtaposed, your
waking-to-check-she-is-still-there
kind of girl, a rollercoaster, a big
bang, a feminist, all rolled into one
who made sense only when you
kept looking into its hypnotic
centre/ and at other times gave you
panic attacks like withdrawal
symptoms from a life-supporting
necessary-evil drug.
I was your human, demons locked
with the demons inside of you,
playing hide and seek,
trying to
keep it intrigued, distracted,
soothed, growling while you
did the necessary to survive.
Name me once, name me twice,
mould me as you want according to
your will,
I will react in ways,
over days
spent locked up with you inside your dreams,
imaginations and memories.
Playing with the lava inside your brain
is the favourite pastime of the lava inside my brain,
I will plant flowers that will survive the white-walkers
in your blank space, when winter comes
and you will have to face the world alone,
I will always, always smile with you
from the sunflowers inside your head.
