Memories and Mementos
by Frankie Steimer
You may have been damaged
but were so quick to give it away;
my voice now mocks me,
I want to take your pain, I'd say--
I never realized you'd take this
so literally.
Be reckless: incinerate the "do not entire" signs
with a fiery swallow, steamroll
the barricades blocking his past
from your need, so-called devotion.
Only then you'll realize
you are not his firefighter;
it's not your job to save him.
So the boy is sad,
my leaking heart:
bursting
at its sight.
But it isn't my fault,
I keep reminding myself,
though it's no use--
I've lived in lies all my life;
I can't breathe,
much less believe
the truth.
Did you forget
how avoiding it
is like leaving your home
with every shaky candle still flaming?
This place is too small, all
the ghosts kicking 'round inside.
Nothing can take your from all
that was ruined. One day, when
I'm not so afraid of losing remnants
of dead love--memories and mementos
buried beneath my bed—perhaps
I'll throw them into the ocean, to sink for a water-logged corrosion;
or douse them in lighter fluid, ignite
to spark up, scorch, turn to ashed dust.
He loved me--
but this isn't always a good thing.
our story was not a happily ever after,
romantic comedy; it was flirting with
our own annihilation, a fetishized
tragedy. Stop romanticizing the way
a star collapses in on itself;
there's no pleasure in
watching a thing of beauty
turn on itself.
but were so quick to give it away;
my voice now mocks me,
I want to take your pain, I'd say--
I never realized you'd take this
so literally.
Be reckless: incinerate the "do not entire" signs
with a fiery swallow, steamroll
the barricades blocking his past
from your need, so-called devotion.
Only then you'll realize
you are not his firefighter;
it's not your job to save him.
So the boy is sad,
my leaking heart:
bursting
at its sight.
But it isn't my fault,
I keep reminding myself,
though it's no use--
I've lived in lies all my life;
I can't breathe,
much less believe
the truth.
Did you forget
how avoiding it
is like leaving your home
with every shaky candle still flaming?
This place is too small, all
the ghosts kicking 'round inside.
Nothing can take your from all
that was ruined. One day, when
I'm not so afraid of losing remnants
of dead love--memories and mementos
buried beneath my bed—perhaps
I'll throw them into the ocean, to sink for a water-logged corrosion;
or douse them in lighter fluid, ignite
to spark up, scorch, turn to ashed dust.
He loved me--
but this isn't always a good thing.
our story was not a happily ever after,
romantic comedy; it was flirting with
our own annihilation, a fetishized
tragedy. Stop romanticizing the way
a star collapses in on itself;
there's no pleasure in
watching a thing of beauty
turn on itself.
Frankie Steimer is currently a student at Pasadena City College.
