I Am Young But I Don’t Know Any Less About Love, Rage or Longing Than Adults, And Here’s Why

Photo by  Luca Bortolato

Photo by Luca Bortolato

I am young and I know not much about love except for the tiny truths portrayed in films my friends encourage me to watch. And yet, I write as though I had seen fireworks blasting against the backdrop of a starry sky wrapped in the secure warmth of a kiss spent desolate on cracked lips and fluid fingers.I am young and I know nothing more about heartbreak except for that one time a boy failed to look twice in my direction. And yet, I write as though I have felt the razor tips of words scratching at the back of my mind as I duel the tidal waves of minutes wasted on screaming for the love we used to have.

I am young and I know nothing about sex except maybe for the times I read poetry. And yet, I write as though I have left scorchmarks on skin stretched bare on cream sheets illuminated by the paling moonlight. Seconds murdered by gasps, hours stolen by kisses, tangled limbs dancing like shadows to a flickering candle.

I am young but I can tell you all I know about loss. And I can write about the bony white faces painted an unnatural rose in a casket lined with silken pillows. The drowning in salt tears tucked within the gaping mouthful of questions your Father had taken with him six feet underneath yellow flowers he’ll never see.

I am young but I can tell you all I know about rage. And I can write about dreams of arson and theft -concrete rescinded into skeletal ruins, money reduced to cinder piled waist high. Fists curled into the beating heart left broken by the shadows of debt and lies.

I am young but I can tell you all I know about fear. Kneecaps crashing and bruising on wooden panels made to carry the weight of prayers left unfulfilled – unheard. The trembling scrawny arms embracing thighs in one corner of a cerulean bathroom, trying to be as small as the world grows louder with every passing day.

I am young but I will try my best to tell  you all that I know of longing. Of seeing no better way to crumble into ashes than under swift, momentary gazes. Of bitten lips smiling, eyes brightening, of shy butterfly flutters of eyelashes. Of reaching further only to be stopped by glasses placed neatly between. Of knots, ruby red blushes and tangles.

I am young but I will write about life as though I had heard its echo resonating within the confines of a bedroom stacked with unread books in one corner and crumpled yellow papers in another.

Submitted to ArtParasites by Cie Miraflor