PASH RASH

Pash Rash - ACT 1

X. The Prologue
Stitches embedded in fingers—
such is the story
of the bruise of a love that lingers.
A shade of burning red stains my skin,
tattooed by your callous scoff—
at the nonsense language
of heartbeats within.
You were never safe,
just familiar.
I. The Question
Have you found out what you wanted me for just yet?
I am a part for you to use in your play,
A melodic plot device—and I guess that’s okay.
At least with me, I think I’m good.
You sort of treat me like you should.
Every morning, you wake up to her.
I never fell asleep.
Looking past the moody, muddy pools,
I found what you didn’t see.
I know what you are to me.
But figure—
What am I in you?
II. The Push and Pull
I bounce back when you insult me and make me small.
I swing back into you when you spin me away.
You broke my gifts and gifted me nothing.
But still, your gift is being present.
Breathing in the dark,
The clean scent of hair too smooth
Between my fingers to be so undeservedly mine—
I snap back and remember it isn’t.
It wasn’t then.
Say it could have been.
III. The Self-Realization
I can honestly say I think I am what you need.
Maybe you’re what I deserve.
I never said hello so I’d never have to say goodbye.
Now, every time you look at me—
In the before,
In the ask,
In the yes,
In the grip,
At the end,
Before I breathe again—
I say hi. Hey. Hello.
A thousand greetings to mitigate the feeling
Of the silent departure—
A bloody, bloody Irish goodbye.








Pash Rash - ACT 2
IV. The Inevitable Comparison
But his preference is redheads anyway.
I wasn’t his type until I changed
My favorite things about myself.
Where am I in him?
I see what he is to me
And what I seem to be to him.
Every breath of mine he steals
Emboldens his love for everything I am not.
Shortens my time.
I am hopeless,
And he is as helpless.
V. The Distance
Less am I helpless,
And more do I find in him—
My self-destructive opportunism.
It reemerges
To see if I can lick the edge of the knife
You use to maintain the needed distance
Between me
And your respect,
Your love,
And anyone who looks, sounds, cries, asks, begs, screams,
And breaks like I do.
There’s nothing I hate more than
The way I am after you.
VI. The Heart’s Humor
Your heart must have a sense of humor—
The way I watch your absent-minded,
Accidental comparisons.
Little things I do differently.
Little things she does so right.
Let me down gently.
My head is already at the base.
I await the way
My head is lopped
From the heart
That’s beating in time
With the new kind of rhythm
I learned to dance to—
Just to keep in step with you.
VII. The Masquerade
The elevator music hums to your mind
(In those places where you sing to mine).
It’s canned, it’s panned,
Like late-night talk shows
When I’m in my masque,
Staying awake with my Ouija board,
Late-night TV with my demons
and some Devil
with his legions.