No words from someone else made of pitch, sap and self-doubt.
Only the flower that fell from a wall.
Floating aimlessly to the ground.
She flowed over so slightly…into a nameless room.
She had come to take me home.
She had been in full bloom.
It is not an egregious act.
I am just taller than most.
Forever, looking over the tops of heads.
Now, that I am older…
I chew less on the lies fed.
A straight diet of bigger, bulkier, not better.
‘You could look nicer. Why don’t you try a prettier shade of blue?
All these questions about…girls…! Well, they’ll put an end to that in parochial school.’
‘You could be so pretty…’
Plastic confessions by society’s tools.
Occasionally, yesterday’s key opens today’s door.
A quick glance in the mirror.
A glance into the past.
A glance at age…reflected in the glass.
Father Time had once delivered me to my own evil.
As I wipe away the steamy debris, I see a woman made image.
So, I forge ahead.
Turning a blind eye to man-made deceit.
Note to self, there is nothing strange in the mirror.
IT is just me.
Note to self, there is nothing different in the mirror…
IT is me.
If I avoid her…the fist comes, tender, but…abrupt.
How dare the game to ask me to explain?
The fragility hangs loose on my lips.
The danger invokes my boxed up mind.
But no explanation will raise my spirits.
No one else but me…
Will ever fit.
It’s not simple to say
That most days I don’t recognize me
That these shoes and this apron
That place and its patrons
Have taken more than I gave them
It’s not easy to know
I’m not anything like I used be, although it’s true
I was never attention’s sweet center
I still remember that girl
She’s imperfect, but she tries
She is good, but she lies
She is hard on herself
She is broken and won’t ask for help
She is messy, but she’s kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone, but she used to be mine
It’s not what I asked for
Sometimes life just slips in through a back door
And carves out a person and makes you believe it’s all true
And now I’ve got you
And you’re not what I asked for
To the reliance of reflection I see.
Thus, what of the transformation into an iron cross of discovery?
Un-anchored spirits from forbidden doorways.
Youthful were the vestiges I held to the light.
Now they are only recollections of disappointed blasphemy.
How true these reflections in me?
How honest can the hues be?
Could not account for the strolls around…
the Good News Bible.
Revelations dripped prosperity.
However grappling were the allegations on the pages in between.
The blotted ink left simple transference of someone else’s insecurity.
What honest there had been left to reflect upon?
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