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Pronounced Names


The first time we met, you told me your name was a good name, and that I should take the time to pronounce it correctly.

But every time you say my name, it's as if it is honey laced with venom.

So am I always in your way, or are you always in mine?

Is it impossible to trust someone else because of you or because of myself?

Have you ever been so angry you taught the walls to close in around you? Taught the doors how to close their mouths? Taught the floor how to shake in caution? Taught the windows how to become mirrors, so we could see the mistake, but make it anyways?

I know there are going to be nights when the world wants to form itself into a question mark around my waist.

And I know that there are going to be nights, turning into mornings, that my waist gravitates towards yours.

And on those nights, we blow our air into bottles as a keepsake of the sound shared between us.

Learning how to make words using only the sound of our lungs as they inhale oxygen, and exhale into shaped glass.

Each breath became a new secret, and each bottle became a time keeper.

But you spilled the sound over dark, forming rivers of words.

By every new morning, it all evaporated. No sign of proof in our declarations.

Now, every time I walk into a room full of you, there is a neon target on my chest.

And maybe you don't agree, but you don't have to.

This isn't your body of water to cleanse your sins in. I will not remain still. I did not pour stagnant words all those nights.

There was no stream. There was nothing less than a current.

Until you became an undertow.

And all this time I spent coming up with metaphors, you were already holding my hand.

© 2018 Xandra Lang