dark violet

sweetening memories

“hey,
we’re living in a fucking
incubator,”
i say,
deliriously battered by the
summer haze;
“but what does it matter?”

picture us:
top-floor apartment
curtains closed shut
tricking ourselves we have
made the weather
                               our subordinate.
we       
                               master manipulators

twist and turn
our glasses
                         of artificial wildberries
                         fermented
                         then imported,

our tongues
                          an acquired taste of summer,

our stories
                          since the dead
                          don’t speak.
                          so then who cares (or remembers?) if
                          my grandpa was actually a dick
                          because my mother
                          still recalls him fondly.

i figured
it’s easier to confess
in past tense
or when your blood is tainted;
then there would be no difference
between a revelation
                                      about
                                      having once fucked
                                      a much older redhead
                                      then suffering from ptsd
or that about
                                      telling your mother
                                      you wish you hadn’t been born
                                      oblivious of her threatened miscarriage.

really. no one cares.
whatever is done
                              is done.

we are
             easily forgiven
             blissfully hidden
             in our brash recklessness
             and idealistic trust
             in the wrong people.
we
cling onto
the prettier pieces of our past
sweetening memories
and thinning them out
                                         through polaroid frames
                                         that are to be hung
                                         on the walls of our dorm rooms.