I first felt myself on the cusp of exodus
when monsters beneath my bed
became a matter minuscule to monsters in my head,
prowling atop a back-burner of my mind,
at 3 a.m. in a kitchen glowing dim.
I felt it when I saw my chest as a cello,
with too small of a sound for anyone to find profound.
When my body became not just a sack of dust,
but a vessel for lust’s progressive masterpiece,
a mechanism for man’s speech.
Felt it when my world was an expanding balloon
on the edge of a pinprick,
when sugared summers sprinkled in sadness
were simmered in blood so…thick.
I felt it when sunburns were licks of fire,
kisses of subtle wrath of untethered desire,
inflicted by desperation’s ambition.
Felt when I tried to chase him into a storm
and unfold him like a paper plane,
to smooth out the wrinkles,
to find it all a deed done in vain.
I felt it when the sky gasped
and turned to boiling soup,
when home became my friends,
and empty shopping carts,
bustling minds of dreams
strung out on laundry lines.
I felt it when the taste of trust grew faded,
but still I reached down the hallways
of her mind to find her hand,
to hold it in the dark that made us blind,
to whisper of a promised land.
When the exodus began,
I knew it as only the title page not yet open,
my spine not yet broken,
a youth not yet shaken.
Now I see it as a parted sea
between miles of painkiller smiles
and masked dignity.
Thus begins the end of my lemonade years,
the exodus of innocence tied to sugar,
where my violent delights meet their violent ends.
thus my prologue here begins.