A reaction to you

A poem

A poem

My mother called me; called me sunshine and told me my smile reminded her of the days we used to hold buttercups under our chins.

She calls me everyday.

She calls me everyday to make sure I’m not suffocating in a bathroom because my whole body is stinging with your spit.

They say you don’t hear yourself the same as everyone else because the sound waves and vibrations have to travel from our vocal chords through our bones. You don’t hear yourself the way we hear you. Your saliva isn’t gospel. Your saliva isn’t articulate. It sounds like bruises. It sounds like blood that seeps the colour of coffins.

When you talk, it’s dirty, but not the kind of dirty people can learn to love.

You dig so many holes, cut off so many tongues, cut off so many heartbeats and kill every ounce of love that we have to our names. That isn’t just our love for the way the sky parts before a rainbow, or that girl we have loved since she lay her delicate head on our shoulder, or that boy who was our first kiss, or that trans kid who really loves music and won’t stop singing even when they are stinging with your spit, but the love that makes us want to keep living for the tiny things that you can’t touch. Because somehow, when you open your mouth and your jaw lets those sounds fall out, you manage to touch those tiny things. You kill every ounce of love that we have to our names.

My mother calls me everyday. And she reminds me to never touch something that isn’t mine without permission, because there is always a chance it will end up broken; when you make our bodies sting with your spit, you are breaking us. You are breaking our love. And I know you may not be able to hear yourself like we do, but I know that you can see what you are touching.

Do not touch us anymore.

For more of Darcy’s poetry follow her on Instagram @w.ithdrawal

My mother called me; called me sunshine and told me my smile reminded her of the days we used to hold buttercups under our chins.

She calls me everyday.

She calls me everyday to make sure I’m not suffocating in a bathroom because my whole body is stinging with your spit.

They say you don’t hear yourself the same as everyone else because the sound waves and vibrations have to travel from our vocal chords through our bones. You don’t hear yourself the way we hear you. Your saliva isn’t gospel. Your saliva isn’t articulate. It sounds like bruises. It sounds like blood that seeps the colour of coffins.

When you talk, it’s dirty, but not the kind of dirty people can learn to love.

You dig so many holes, cut off so many tongues, cut off so many heartbeats and kill every ounce of love that we have to our names. That isn’t just our love for the way the sky parts before a rainbow, or that girl we have loved since she lay her delicate head on our shoulder, or that boy who was our first kiss, or that trans kid who really loves music and won’t stop singing even when they are stinging with your spit, but the love that makes us want to keep living for the tiny things that you can’t touch. Because somehow, when you open your mouth and your jaw lets those sounds fall out, you manage to touch those tiny things. You kill every ounce of love that we have to our names.

My mother calls me everyday. And she reminds me to never touch something that isn’t mine without permission, because there is always a chance it will end up broken; when you make our bodies sting with your spit, you are breaking us. You are breaking our love. And I know you may not be able to hear yourself like we do, but I know that you can see what you are touching.

Do not touch us anymore.

For more of Darcy’s poetry follow her on Instagram @w.ithdrawal

Your email address will not be published. Comments will display after being approved by a staff member. Comments may be edited for clarity.

Poll

  • Voting please wait...
    Your vote has been cast. Reloading page...
    Do you support the $6 million proposal for Rugby Park, which includes synthetic turf, an athletics track, additional sportsfield, all-weather sports pavilion and conference/function centre?