Helium

by Rudy Francisco

When I walk into a room full of people, all I see is an ocean.

Page It just sits there, with a mouth full of entitlement, staring at you and wondering why it is still not a masterpiece.

hope I haven’t already driven past my greatest moments.

I’m afraid if I let you see my skeletons, you’ll grind the bones into powder and get high on my fault lines.

promise I will love you as if it’s the only thing I’ve ever done correctly.

take my compliments the same way I take my coffee. I don’t drink coffee.

The tongue has a jagged beauty and I know how easily the mouth can become a rose bush.

the pulp, the part that makes the juice seem real.

I’d write about your eyelashes, and how they are like violin strings that play symphonies every time you blink.

my depression is an angry deity, a jealous god a thirsty shadow that wrings my joy like a dishrag and makes juice out of my smile.

You gorgeous earthquake.

I’ll tell you. I got these scars the day I fell in love with you. I landed face-first.

Love is clumsy, and my heart refuses to wear a helmet.

Cupid is irresponsible, and I’m tired of him using me for target practice.

My brain is a revolver with “Am I good enough?” in every chamber.

Twenty years later, the irony hits me over the head like an empty Heineken bottle inside of the bar fight that I call my everyday life.

we often forget that sexism is a family heirloom that we’ve been passing down for generations.

I’m just sorry that she had to be your fortune cookie. Broken so you could learn a lesson you already should’ve known.