rudy-francisco

I write poems about flowers but can’t manage to keep any alive. I spent a whole summer when I was fifteen not going to bed until the sun was up because I thought the dark was trying to eat me. Even now, when I bleed, I expect demons to seep out. My days are arranged by color; my brightest moments are always shimmering in pink. I’ve cried at too many sunsets and not enough sunrises. I don’t live anywhere near the water and can’t swim so I’m always falling in love with boys on the west coast. I collect song lyrics instead of stamps. I won’t be content with my body until it’s covered in ink and I don’t mind looking at it in a mirror. Home still feels like just another empty word I don’t fit into. I’ve never broken a bone and I guess that’s my consolation price for a jumbled mind. At twenty-one I’m still too small for most roller coasters, but can still fit on most swing sets. These days I sleep with lavender and blueberry incense on my pillow to try and keep the nightmares away. My heart is always straining against my rib cage, and I think one of these days it might liquefy and spill right through the cracks.
— 

MY HONEST POEM, angelea l.

(After Rudy Francisco)

When they ask me about my future wife, I always tell them that her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long. I tell them that she has a walk that can make an atheist believe in God just long enough to say, ‘God damn’. I tell them that if my alarm clock sounded like her voice, my snooze button would collect dust. I tell them that if she came in a bottle, I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys. I tell them that if she was a book, I would memorize her table of contents. I would read her, cover to cover, hoping to find typos, just so we could both have something to work on, because aren’t we all unfinished? Don’t we all need editing? Aren’t we all waiting to be read by someone, praying they will tell us that we make sense? She doesn’t always make sense but I swear to God, her imperfections are the things that I love about her the most. I don’t know when I will be married, I don’t know where I will be married, but I do know this: whenever I’m asked to describe my future wife, I do so as best as I can and every single time, she sounds a lot like you. Every single time, she sounds a lot like you.
—  Rudy Francisco, “A Lot Like You”
When they ask me about my future wife, I always tell them that her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long. I tell them that she has a walk that can make an atheist believe in God just long enough to say, ‘God damn’. I tell them that if my alarm clock sounded like her voice, my snooze button would collect dust. I tell them that if she came in a bottle, I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys. I tell them that if she was a book, I would memorize her table of contents. I would read her, cover to cover, hoping to find typos, just so we could both have something to work on, because aren’t we all unfinished?
—  Rudy Francisco, A Lot Like You