Don't call this an art project.
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This is science, this is progress.
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And don't pretend these are heartfelt words, we are
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Children dressed as surgeons but disturbed by the sight of our scars.
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And now we carry scalpels to trace the scarring resting somewhere
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On the line between my house, your heart and into your home.
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Where you lay sleeping like a ceiling fan in winter,
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Gently turning as the wind reaches it's fingers through the window
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Just to hold you, like I held you.
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Pressed like a rose between my fingers or like stones
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I keep in pockets meant to weigh me underwater.
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These scars will fade away but never disappear, my dear.
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We'll raise our fists like lightning to rods to god and
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If he strikes us down,
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Then he strikes us down.
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But first, let him hear us speak:
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We are like the legacy of thunderstorms we watched and swore in doorways,
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"we will never be the same again."
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I can feel you healing and I hate it,
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(Like a harpist without hands you only bang the strings
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You used to love to touch so much)
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To hear the dissonance drain violently and then dissolve
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Like all the songs I sang but never once could make you smile.
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My god, I would kill to make you smile.
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And reach out to my hands, soft and frail,
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To make good on the love that you swear still exists, and still thrives
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Though we've buried our bodies in blood (and old lies,
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Like, "I'm fine" and "you look so much better than him"
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But don't trust the surgeon with your heart,
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She's drunk and sips from poison cups, and
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Don't you trust the scientist,
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He says "life-is-like-a-wineglass" as he spills his drink
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Like secrets
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All across your dress and says:
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"my dear, I must confess, I never thought you ever knew what love was like for real.
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I never thought you needed me.")
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-----------------
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The Surgeon And The Scientist
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| La Dispute |
