Wished upon a wish, and fell

Nobody told me about all the clouds
in wishes that spills sorrows like leaky faucets,
but I’ve learned not to question which ocean
the dish water will contaminate this time.

I’ve been planting this garden for a decade
and never noticed how brown
had redrawn my finger prints
and dyed my bloodstream with lavender,
even when you slept pressed against my pulse
did I believe you loved it.

White chalk always stood out
like blacktop veins, crusted and stitched
spent hop-scotching over parcels of reality,
where the waving end of fairytale
met I am three-dimensional and rusted.
I believed every summer night wasted in collecting
the dust of its life meant
I could dream upon it later.

Instead blood ran cold
from green hoses,
genetic markers washed away
by computer keys and ink-seeping wounds.
These poems inscribed all the hours
I spent holding your ghost captive
between my ribs.
These poems were meant to be a promise.
These poems can’t promise anymore.

I am not a miner of apologies
and I’ll no longer feel regret for the tombstones
decorating my knuckles.
I’ve dug a thousand graves
and finally realized I was too alive to sleep in them.
I’m no longer going to be sorry
for the tides that are tangled in my veins
or the shipwrecks migrating across my skin.

Maybe I don’t care if you care.
Maybe I’m not small enough for
the space beneath my bed to fear it.
Maybe I care too much for the false
bravado staining everyone’s smiles.
Solitude was never a curse to me
as it was to you
and I’ve found myself far more solid in its embrace
than ever in yours.

Sometimes I wish eyes could change function,
sometimes I wish lines remained devout
sometimes I wish this pix axe wasn’t dripping gold
sometimes I wish I knew which ocean I polluted  
this time,
which sailor drank all those wishes
and knows who I am.
Sometimes, I’m just tired of all the wishing.
Maybe one day, you will be too.