Posted in Poetry

Thoughts on ‘Keys’

I. It is not often that you wonder about what you do not have. You do not have a home, you do not own a car. Your hands have never hold a key in a way that wasn’t transitory.

II. Homes are not for those who wander, and you have never done anything but. There are times in which you wonder how your feet can carry you miles and oceans away when there are still pieces of your body that linger and stay.

III. The first time you held a key it was a sign to move forward. You did not have a choice. Keys were rust and metal sticking to the back of your throat. Transit meant fear and blood, rooms and cars, bullets and wounds. It was here that you learnt the true meaning of oxygen and water.

IV. The last time you held a key you could not breathe. Your lungs were made of saltwater and smoke. Sand ran through your veins like the careless passing of an indifferent clock. Time moved backwards and then forward. You lost hours upon hours, upon hours counting back the salt you never wanted to give back to the ocean in your chest.

V. It is not often that you wonder about what you cannot have. You cannot have a home, cannot own a name or a place. Your hands, so used to touch and let go are being taught that sometimes to linger means to hold, and sometimes you need to hold to let go.

VI. Names are for people who stay, and your body is so used to running it seems to slip a bit further away with every word you say. There are times in which you wonder how your body can stay afloat when the ocean in your chest is filled with rocks and corpses.

VII. The first time you hold a key is as an afterthought. You are an afterthought, only barely there and almost unrecognizable under the right light. Transit still makes your bones ache and your blood ask for something you cannot give it anymore.

VIII. The next time you hold a key it has a weight, a meaning, a taste other than copper and stale tears. You do not run anymore. Your scars and wounds have taught you that you can endure, that you are a rock and weathered canvas.

IX. It is not often that you think about what you have and what you are. You are a key in someone else’s hand, a choice, a sign. You are home, when houses and cars have never been anything other than transit.

X. You are home. Oceans and sandless clocks can never dictate your future, because you held hands with someone who gave you a key and invited you over. You are not afraid of the salt you’ve yet to give back to the world, because now your wounds are protected, covered. You are not afraid of a body that wanders far because you have a heart that stays and belongs.

You can stay and belong, that is what keys are for.

-L.

Advertisements

Author:

23-year-old writer from Chile. Currently reading, writing, and trying not to lose my mind.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s