No Return Address

Determined to succeed at this failure. Dressed in someone else's clothes. Bathed in someone else's scent. There is perfume in the lies we tell ourselves. There are flower to be grown in this stoic bed.

I tried to wear them and was always worn by. So I changed my plan. Pounded the shoes until they fit. Not taking into account where I planned to walk in them.

So maybe my nose gets red because my glasses are too old and they don't fit right anymore. But it's still my face. And it's still my nose. Holding up the sight I wasn't fortunate enough to have been born with.

I think of the words we used to say. Little daggers stabbing at giant carcasses. Always telling ourselves we're hunting what's hunting us.

Putting our hurt into those fleshy envelopes. And wondering why it always comes back to us undelivered.