"let the water flood out/let the light flood in."
There is a style of pot
made of broken vessels,
the cracks in the ceramic repaired with
Some days you feel shattered.
The veins inside your elbow are fissures
and your heart cracks them wider
with every beat and blow.
The word kintsukuroi sits on your tongue,
but it makes you think of tarnish,
of Midas’s curse and the way
your mother clutches her wallet, thin, threadbare.
You could paint each broken edge of you with gold,
press them together, pray.
You could dig up your hot glue gun from the back of your desk,
find the duct tape under the kitchen sink,
and build, repair, make new.
You think of the way your mother looks at you,
your hollows, your fissures, thin, threadbare.
You want to offer up your bandaged hands,
promise they’re watertight,
and let her fill them from a deep cold well.
But first remember this:
You are a broken heart,
not a shattered vessel.
You do not have to hold things.
I want more of Sam Wilson’s anger. I want the Sam Wilson who tells Rumlow to shut the hell up, because he is so done with this bullshit, goddamn. I want Sam with a tic in his jaw because he’s been listening to Sitwell give them the runaround, and they do not have time for this.
I want Sam losing his temper in the first days of the Find Bucky Road Trip, because he just got his wings back and now they’re lost again, and the wound is just as raw as when the AF locked them up the first time. And now he’s out looking for the guy who took them, who grounded him. And he wants to believe Steve, wants to have been wrong about the chances of saving that man, wants to find Bucky instead of the Winter Soldier, for Steve’s sake.
But he also kind of wants to punch that asshole in the face, because it’s his fault Sam’s got weights on his feet again and a crick in his back from sleeping on crap motel mattresses and in the backs of cars.
I want angry Sam Wilson, because the man is a gift, but he ain’t a saint.
Sam Wilson I’m not saying race is an element here but race is kind of an element here Fury’s anger is routinely played for laughs while Sam’s is sublimated into good advice for the white boys and those are both fine I don’t mind Fury complaining about these motherfucking superheroes on his motherfucking helicarrier and I don’t mind Sam being a well-adjusted ball of sunshine with gap-toothed smiles and breakfast foods but if you’re not writing fluff maybe don’t defang these guys out of a fear of the Angry Black Man short-tempered Steve gets a lot of love because hey righteous anger! adorable package! Sam works at the VA THE FUCKING VA do you know the amount of red tape and bullshit he must encounter there? come talk to me about Sam trying to get resources and resolutely ignoring the fact that he doesn’t have the necessary political pull come talk to me about righteous anger in an adorable package taking on opponents way above his weight class come talk to me about Sam goddamn Wilson
8: memories full of absence
blank eyes and careless smiles
the sound of a laundry basket
broken over the banister
you howled like a dying thing
and i hid
by 13: i knew how to take your breaths for you
but at 19: you had forgotten
i was more than your life-support
because you never did care to remember
a shattered hymen among broken streetlights
lines of screams that get choked down like medicine
no, instead you took the blood from my lap and painted
abalone, Easter, love me, love me nots for our kitchen table
18: you’ve gathered more children since i left
and it’s clear they don’t have my gift
for disarmament treaties—
i can hear the echo of your thorny spindles
from all up the seething coast
and sometimes i feel cursed for having avoided them
19: but we talked, still, once—
on the balcony of a speakeasy with coffee warming our skin
we let ourselves smile and only stopped when you started
twisting each word i gave you into grotesque endorsement
until i become the voice of your wicked authority
the author of quotes fixed with magnets—
and i left
for good this time
20: i am a survivor
for clawing loose from your world
for finding silicone ships to take me on, on,
holding fast to a beam that does not splinter
under my fingernails,
not even when i try to make it
i am a survivor because
in the hour of my desperation
my feet wanted land instead of bone
and i contained enough to hold, to move,
to breathe like a big kid, all by myself
ever after, a postulation: you had left so many years ago
lived so long in your mirrors
that i had forgotten my hands
knew how to do more than hold you up
but i am not you
i do not cling to forgetting
i do not cover my splinters with gloves
and i am no more destined for your echoes and spindles
than you are for my breath and hands
i will no longer drown myself for you
and i will tell you:
you are wrong to ask me to
— breathe, in time (via peenguin)