Run

I watched it for fifteen minutes,
black beetle on the edge of a desk,
shell edged in red,
antenna trembling,
trying to take stock of its surroundings
and failing,
flailing,
never getting anywhere.

I didn't give it a chance to run
before I crushed it under my shoe.
I held nothing against it but existence,
and even I got a chance at that.

I spend my days living a routine—
an endless spiral
both familiar and foreign in its consistency.
I can neither fly away
nor find my way to solid ground,
so this is where I have stayed.

I have to get out,
run while I can,
or I'll be crushed before I've gone anywhere.

Burn All The Letters

Precision of language
is an impossibility.

Junior high me liked attention.
She exaggerated the emotions of her life
in ways that were unrealistic and untrue
and she got her attention.

Present day me still likes attention.
But I also value the preservation of authenticity,
the precision of language,
saying what I mean.

Today that precision failed.
I failed it
and I failed me.

Three Hits

One.

October,
confession,
rejection.

Honesty overcomes discomfort.
The telling is arduous, the questions
unanswerable, and I leave
crying. 

Two.

November,
confession,
acceptance.

Handwritten pain and vulnerability.
I expected to hurt but instead felt free.
For me, acceptance is the defining factor
in love.

Three.

December,
confession,
emotion.

My sins have left me unclaimed.
It's hard enough losing myself
without everyone else losing me too,
but they do,
and I cope.

Power Of Two

Long drive to some countryside
with no destination in mind,
talk about feeling confined
and how life is so rarely kind.

U-turns on deserted roads--
we don't have to know where they go.
Time passes but they don't know;
his story is much like my own.

Important to few but us,
important because we learned trust.
Honesty, nothing discussed
but truth we didn't need to adjust.

A world where people estrange--
I want to believe they can change.
Difference no longer deranged
but love and acceptance exchanged.

Our stories are not any mystery,
our lives are a far cry from misery. 
I doubt I'll look back on this bitterly;
despite what will happen eventually,
he's forever fixed in my history.

Prince Of Darkness

Am I going to end up alone?
There are worse things than that,
I suppose. But I still want to know:
where will I end up?

On a deserted highway
in a broken-down car with
no spare tire, no cell service,
and no one to trust?

In an alley behind a dumpster,
bruised, broken, bleeding
because my skirt was too short 
and my shoulders were bare?

Behind a broken chair,
cowering in fear because
years ago I made a choice
and it was the wrong one?

Near the scene of unlikely crime
that no one could have anticipated,
shot through some vital organ
for believing in something?

Under the mangled carcass of a burning building,
an unrecognizable remnant of human,
a faceless name who tried to do good
and will never know if she succeeded?

At the end of a tunnel of light,
turned away from a pearly gate
to face a freezing eternity
in the black of loneliness?

Or maybe these thoughts are irrelevant
because they are improbable, and because
death is not as frightening
as the thought of living lonely.

Our Deliverance

Colder weather,
summer fading into winter
without autumn ever seeing the sun,
and I go back to the place I used to call
home.

Anticipation fills me as I grow nearer,
and I feel like I can hardly wait.
I let myself in at midnight and crawl into
the bed that's always kept for me,
stealing a pillow from my sister--
she has more than enough.
In the morning my siblings are excited to see me,
but an hour  later I'm anxious to leave again.
I've outstayed my welcome and am just waiting
for someone to let me know that.

I miss it as soon as I'm gone,
and I want to talk about it but I don't
until the next day, when I try to talk through
the pain I don't want to be feeling.

My family never fails to hurt me,
whether they mean to or not. My friends
are what keep me from hurting myself.

Digging For Your Dream

It's not personal,
but the things you want aren't important to me.
Your life is not what I dreamed it would be.
You should have been a lawyer;
maybe then your other life decisions would be more acceptable.
Then again, probably not.
I thought I wanted you to be less like me,
but I changed my mind.
The more like me you are,
the less like yourself you can choose to be,
and then your life can turn out like mine.
I just want what's best for you.

I've been where you are,
I know what's going to happen,
and if you don't take my advice,
then someday you'll look back and realize I was right.
I don't want that to happen.
Well, maybe a little,
but I would never admit that.
It's nothing personal, just remember that
I have more life experience than you.
The obvious conclusion being that
I know how you should live your life.
You know I don't want to make you mad,
right?
I just want you to be happy.

For the unofficial record,
your personal life is determined by my assumptions.
I asked you a question three weeks ago.
Your answer means you don't have friends.
As I've told you before, religious worship is the
only way for your social life to be fulfilling,
but you don't have a religion.
So no, you're not spiritual enough to have friends.
But don't take it personally.
I'm just telling you what I've observed,
without any real thought for the
weak trust I'm destroying
or the insecure feelings I'm tearing down.

But, but, but.
It's nothing personal but oh yes it is.
Excuses, excuses, excuses.
They keep coming but they're not mine.
Meaningless pseudo-apology
meets omnipotent selfishness,
and maybe this is how it's supposed to be,
but I hope not.

Maybe I hope for too much.