lopsided

7

“In the aftermath to come, Americans should remain vigilant of the mainstream media’s tendency to blame-both-sides equally, regardless of the lopsided casualties of police violence. And whether or not Americans will agree or disagree with Johnson’s actions should not be the question we explore most. Focusing on his actions alone is a convenient diversionary tactic which enables America’s white supremacist power structure to delegitimize his anger and sweep the issue of state terror back under the rug. Instead, we should ask how are we going to communicate to police officers that if they wish ever again to be secure from the consequences of their violence, their top priority must be to stop terrorizing black and brown communities. That if they truly desire their own safety, they will first have to stop murdering people  —  or else more chickens, inevitably, will come home to roost.”

– Dallas Shooting: Where Peaceful Existence is Impossible, Violence is Inevitable

  • Lopsided
  • Rudy Francisco
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Lopsided - Rudy Francisco

She is a lopsided soliloquy. A wounded symphony played by an orchestra of her family’s “I-told-you-so"s. A tattered woman who bleeds like an oak tree. Her life story is just a sandpaper love song written on a napkin full of all the reasons why no one should ever try to hug the rain. You always end up soaking wet and by yourself. 

She: a rusty faucet, dripping self esteem that falls quicker than short skirts in motels when the sun blinks for too long. You see, when confidence hits the ground, it echoes like sin in a room full of God, and I could hear her coming a mile away. She has violin strings for legs, a graveyard of awkward treble clefs buried in her knees and I can see the suffering inside of the concert of her walk.

Her footsteps: they sound like the ignition to a father’s car the day that he decided that he was too thirsty to pour water on his own seed so when she calls me "daddy” I never really get excited because I know that it’s just the title that she gives the branches in her life that are destined to be abducted by the wind.

She comes over on Wednesdays. She walks into my room like a question that neither one of us has the courage to ask. Y'know sometimes, words, they get too heavy to sit on the ivory pedestals that we’ve built inside of our mouths. Y'know sometimes, our actions, they join hands and they become behaviors that are too complicated for lips to say out loud, so instead, we just liberate our flesh letting skin speak on our behalf, the language of those who are just as afraid of commitment as they are of being alone and we speak it like it’s our native tongue.

Honestly, I can’t tell you her favorite color… her middle name… or what her face looks like with the lights on. All I know is that we are both allergic to the exact same things: compliments… the word “beautiful”… and someone saying “I love you” with arms full of acceptance and sincerity on their breath.

Sometimes, I wonder what she carries in the luggage underneath her eyes. Sometimes, I-I wanna ask if those bags ever get too heavy for her face. But instead, I… I let those questions sandcastle inside of my stomach. I amputate the parts of me that have grown fond of her smell.

I wait until she leaves.

I wash my sheets.

And I think to myself, “most men would be proud of something like this.”

our actions, they join hands and they become behaviors that are too complicated for lips to say out loud. so instead we just liberate our flesh, letting skin speak on our behalf the language of those who are just as afraid of commitment as they are of being alone…
—  Rudy Francisco: “Lopsided”
Honestly, I can’t tell you her favorite color, her middle name, or what her face looks like with the lights on. All I know is that we are both allergic to the exact same things like… compliments. Like the word “beautiful.” Like someone saying, “I love you” with arms full of acceptance and sincerity on their breath. Most days, I wonder what she carries in the luggage underneath her eyes. I wonder if those bags ever get too heavy for her face.
—  Rudy Francisco (Lopsided)

<p>She is a stuttering soliloquy, a wounded symphony played by an orchestra of her families I told you so’s.&lt;/p&gt;</p>

<p>&lt;p&gt;A tattered woman who bleeds like an oak tree, her life story is just a sandpaper love song written on a napkin full of all the reasons why no one should ever try to hug the rain, you always end up soaking wet and by yourself. &lt;/p&gt;</p>

<p>&lt;p&gt;She,&lt;/p&gt;</p>

<p>&lt;p&gt;A rusty faucet dripping self esteem that falls quicker than short skirts in motels when the sun blinks for too long. You see, when confidence hits the ground it echoes like sin in a room full of God and I can hear her coming a mile away.&lt;/p&gt;</p>

<p>&lt;p&gt;She has violin strings for legs, a graveyard of awkward treble clefs buried in her knees, and I can see the suffering inside of the concert of her walk. &lt;/p&gt;</p>

<p>&lt;p&gt;Her foot steps they sound like the ignition to her father’s car the day that he decided that he was too thirsty to pour water on his own seed, so when she calls me daddy I never really get excited because I know it’s just the title that she gives the branches in her life that are destined to be abducted by the wind.&lt;/p&gt;</p>

<p>&lt;p&gt;She comes over on Wednesdays.&lt;/p&gt;</p>

<p>&lt;p&gt;She walks into my room like a question that neither one of us has the courage to ask.&lt;/p&gt;</p>

<p>&lt;p&gt;You know sometimes words they get too heavy to sit on the ivory pedestals that we built inside of our mouths. You know sometimes our actions they join hands and they become behaviors that are too complicated for lips to say out-loud, so instead we just liberate our flesh letting skin speak on our behalf the language of those who are just as afraid of commitment as they are of being alone and we speak it like it’s our native tongue.&lt;/p&gt;</p>

<p>&lt;p&gt;Honestly, I can’t tell you her favorite color, her middle name, or what her face looks like with the lights on. All I know is that we are both allergic to the exact same things; things like compliments, like the word beautiful, like someone saying I love you with arms full of acceptance and sincerity on their breath. Most days I wonder what she carries in the luggage underneath her eyes, I wonder if those bags ever get too heavy for her face but instead I let those questions sandcastle inside of my stomach&lt;/p&gt;</p>

<p>&lt;p&gt;I amputate the parts of me that are growing fond of her smell and I wash my sheets.&lt;/p&gt;</p>

<p>&lt;p&gt;And I think to myself, you know, most men are proud of things like this.&lt;/p&gt;</p>

—  Rudy Francisco, Lopsided

You live in a still house, a house that does not breathe. The furniture does not answer your prayers, the chandelier does not sing. In that chronic stasis, you sit and give names to all things that do not need names. The small scratch on the table, the snipped embroidery on the curtain, the knot in your hair. Submerged in nouns, like a swan’s neck underwater, you are beautiful. Tell me, then, when to come back up for a whiff of air, do you think of me? Tell me, then, when the stories end, do you think of me? Do you think of me when the house falls asleep? Please tell me that you do; there’s nothing more I want than to be the last thought you conjure up when all else is done.