Alain Ginsberg

THE GRASS MIGHT BE GREENER BUT THE WATER AIN'T
 

I once was told to get on the good side of things I had to cross a bridge
had to be on land but not this land, had to make myself comfortable
on the stability of it as if it was a choice.
I learned more about the different ways to call myself a faggot
in high school than anything else, except building bridges.
Learned more about building bridges than I did about what to do
when you get to the other side and there is nothing left
but dying and once, in high school, a boy threatened to bludgeon
my face into itself, make a black hole suspend in my mouth,
and instead taught me how to tie a noose in the theatre
and I remembered that more than the lines I was given.

There is a bridge somewhere that is left unfinished,
it hangs over the point where the first boy I was honest
about loving told me I was not enough of anything to hold onto,
how weightless my body was, how empty a heart I carried,
how rude of me to ask him to make it full again or, for the first time.
I think I tried jumping then. Tried swimming and diving, looked for something
to hold this body regardless of the weight of it, strung a black hole in my mouth
only to take in all of this world with me.

I think I grew teeth, suspended across two masses of land.
I think I swam into my own mouth and found peace or,
just the murmur of bodies walking along the ocean floor.


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