I am the subject of my own creation but that’s one of the details that doesn’t matter.
I’ll never be next in the queue.
Oh! To be you. To be seen, to be wanted, to be adored, to be listened to, to be acceptable and implored, to be worthy, to be sexy, to be creative, to be the natural born leader with the demanding cheekbones, to be inquisitive, to be equated.
I rupture my own ideals – a daily feat where we play checkers while drunk sat beside large mirrors with inscriptions on the frame.
There’s blame and it resides in the deepest pit somewhere within. A vessel of black treacle and I am the spoon. Weed the garden and surrender the parts that don’t make sense anymore. Scrape the residue from our spines, here in this garden, this unseen void.
Now do you see me? Now do you know? I leap in bounds and wail like a cat declawed. I bang on walls and roll myself up in a tight ball. Now do you see me? I stand in high places wearing nothing but a painted grin, I bleed for you. Now do you see me? But then I pause and observe the blood on my hands.
Now do you see me?
D R Forest 2015 ©