of my mother's obsession with candles
and the bookshelf that towers over everyone.
i'm an only child,
whatever that means: petulant, pouting,
making sure to get my way.
(loudmouthed, obscene, beloved.)
i hold no confession, no valid observations,
just things i've picked up along the way.
no real scars, no real experience.
pretend you 'get' me, pretend you 'understand where [i'm] coming from, really' & i'll pretend to care when you give me advice.
it's not easy hiding, not easy stepping on a plane
running (away) when i never really know what's chasing me.
i have 29 more hours until i have to make a real decision, the first one
i have ever made. i could make lists, see my options in black & blue,
see where my life has decided to take me without me even moving.
believe me, if i could open my mouth and speak words that would change worlds, i would. if i could change someone's mind or even my own, i would.
the world keeps on believing what it wants to believe while the
preachers bang their pulpits selling a god that's past its (his) sell by
date, in a worn out package.
believing that time is cyclical while it marches like ants towards some
inexplicable end just means you'll get caught in the rip tide, forward
(and backward) motion.
who gets my lies and who gets my truths? i am no prophet, i bring no
message of hope & salvation
but i close my eyes and push play, and there he is.