Memory is a tattletale. A fishnet vase. Spilling water everywhere. Sex is an attorney. Sworn to defend the guilty. A snowflake in April devoured by the greening grass. You spend your whole life pretending you know yourself. And what you want. When all you're really doing is skipping rope. Counting how many times you don't trip. Don't fall.
The awkward trivialities of life skidding under your feet. A dull chisel chewing on a knot in the wood. Pimples popped. Diapers changed. Toilets flushing. In an aquarium of suspects. Each one promising tomorrow will be different.
Frantic dictators on the edge of their empire. French doors at the back of our lives. Revealing to the world out there how empty we are inside. The liar in me knows better. It's the child I don't trust.
Wednesday
4/18/2007 12:34:00 AM
Sad Labels:
endings
,
friends
,
loneliness
,
sad
The liar I am sure isnt half as creative as the child in you. So I guess not being able to trust it is a good thing.
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