gotta talk to somebody who can tell me what the hell is wrong.
February 6, 2010 at 1:29 pm , by Haley
the grass doesn’t look any greener,
I confess,
but I think I’ll hop fence
I think I’ll slow down
hide my face,
muffle the complacent
sounds.
the scaffolding here can’t hold us
now
we’re fostering support
without preparing for the floor
to give out.
and I’ll pace!
and I’ll pace!
and I’ll pace!
and I’ll wear the spots where
I want the wear;
tear at the walls until
they’re drywall-bare—
Sometimes life is so infuriating and it comes to haunt you in sidewalk playing cards and mid-morning poker chips
and you’d think it might get easier with years to read the signs
—between the lines—
but it’s never any easier to relieve these suggestive fears.
The world, it’s tilting. It’s going too fast.
The days are too tiring, too uncomfortable.
Too tight. Too big.
and aren’t you insulted?
aren’t you going to cry?
aren’t you going to make a scene?
and
aren’t
I
ashamed?
A lot of things happened.
Have happened.
Are happening.
The goal is to find the good-enoughs, but when they’re all so far away it’s so easy to fall through the fingers of the--
Coltish-young things keep cowed contact and still,
I’m remissive,
unconditional,
and fully functional,
though admittedly somewhat rusted.
It takes a real kick in the chest,
a not entirely literal
strike of the heart
to instill the sort of distraught,
distrust, distaste for
you:
famished, forgiving, faithful:
you are all my lions
I’m pretty sure, I’m sure of it:
the grass doesn’t look any greener,
but I think I’ll sleep with my truth
in the weeds.
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