this is an old though but it was just for you huck
This is what is because without our whiskey bellies and empty bedrooms our toes would still remain cold every night and we would freeze, no longer existing as the down south sugar canes that kiss you with their whiskers and whom you love. Before this room became everything it was meant to be, there was silence in the wood chips and full wine glasses waiting to be spilled, and they are separate because we don’t spill anymore and you can’t find an ounce of silence unless you press your ear into every feather pillow and there aren’t any left. We were led to this place by skippin’ rocks along the Mississippi river, one clad with crawfish and crocodile teeth from a secret underwater bayou and the other with a stick and cloth on her shoulder full of pine trees and secret lines on her hand covered in bbq sauce. Memories are made into something more when you can smoke, snort, kiss, stuff, swallow, and jam everything possible into yourself and you still cannot forget that humid night spent admiring your kitchen refrigerator, your home. It took nothing to get me here; I was already broken, but when I am ready to escape it will be silently without anything I came with, in the middle of the daytime in a sunshine rain, and I will not look back. That I can guarantee. This here is a plateau, the baby making of all possibilities. I cannot see a path because I am walking with my eyes closed shut. I will name it something I will never say aloud and the names that circle this name are too afraid to raise there hands and say “PRESENT” so their names too will remain silenced. I keep my secrets in little boxes hidden inside all of my mattresses tied with big yellow bows. And they are secrets because my bed is a door that leads to another that leads to the land I entered the world in. They are secrets because I said so. What separates me from this place is a nod, a smile, a yes mam/no mam please thank you fuck off.
