We play on the corner till the streetlights thin
and stars pinprick a corkboard sky.

Dinner is anytime: bologna on white;
Kool-Aid cut thin with tap.

No hurry home unless for the news -we don’t.
We want what’s coming, not what’s been.

Paper fortune tellers flutter open / close.
She writes the answers first.

Lift one flap: your dog dies. Another: a prince.
Another: best party in town, no dress required.

He lifts a flap: her name-
“meant for you,” her sister whispers.

Then rain- blue-lined paper caves;
ink loosens, futures wash mid-fold.

At This Street & That Road, a drunk witch
swears Saturn and Jupiter will make us rich.

She forgets conjunctions come every twenty years.
Lunch money turns to lottery slips.

Rounding the corner, the futures
sign their names where ours should go.

Just a quiet woman polished bright by nerves,
I once felt wild for dipping my hair in purple.
Noticing, my hairdresser asked if I had anyone special.

I dated a man with a good job
who liked museums.
We saw a drunk girl in a leather skirt-
heels hobbling down cobblestone,
her bird-arm linked through a friend’s.
He rolled his eyes:  
would you go out wearing skirts like that?
On the dating app I’d written:
loves dogs, drinks champagne from paper cups.

It wasn’t a lie, but I am such a liar.
I told him yes,
because I needed his reaction,
his self-corrected mind,
though I’ve never worn one.
I say I’m fine with whatever,
or this is stupid,
but truthfully
I’m afraid I’m only a very nice lady,
soft in the hands of whoever will take me.

I carry anger like a weak religion-
a god I light candles for twice a year,
more symbol than practice.
I’ve heard of burying St. Joseph upside down
to sell a house. But there’s no charm,
no saint, for loosening the knots I keep tied.

I want to keep the bright mess of my dog heart,
mud-spattered, mulch-snuffling,
faithful to its own scent,
while crows, squirrels, and the occasional fox
paw through the dirt
for what they almost forgot.

a whisper of a prayer.
the crescent moon.
the flickering candlelight in her eyes.
the needle and a spoon.

down the hall
a radio plays softly.

her silhouette dances
on the plaster wall
like the waning crescent moon

and the moon holds no light of its own.
it resides in darkness.

(carved into the wall)

epigraph:

the needle in my arm
and the world
can do me no harm.

the needle and the spoon
and the waning crescent moon---benediction,
the night remembers no one.

You think… if you explain enough,
if you lay your heart bare enough,
if you open every page of your soul and let them read—
maybe they’ll understand.
Maybe they’ll see the nights you didn’t sleep,
the weight you’ve been carrying,
the reasons behind every choice you made.

But no.
Some people don’t want to understand.
They don’t want truth—
they want agreement.
They want you to bend,
to nod,
to shrink yourself so your thoughts fit neatly in the small box they’ve built for their comfort.

You could bleed in front of them,
and they’d call it theatrics.
You could hand them your truth, trembling in your palms,
and they’d call it an excuse.
Because in their minds,
they’ve already judged you—
and judgement rarely listens.

And that’s the part that hurts.
Not that they disagree,
but that they refuse to even try to see you.
It’s like talking to a wall…
except walls don’t look you in the eye while pretending to care.
They nod while loading their next argument.
They smile while sharpening the knife.
They ask questions,
but only to find the gaps where they can twist the blade deeper.

And so you start to see the truth:
It doesn’t matter how lengthy your reason is,
how honest, how raw,
how much it costs you to speak—
to a closed mind, your words are already worthless.

Matthew 13:15 says it best:
“For this people’s heart has grown dull,
and with their ears they can barely hear,
and their eyes they have closed,
lest they should see with their eyes
and hear with their ears
and understand with their heart
and turn, and I would heal them.”

That’s it, isn’t it?
They’ve closed their eyes,
shut their ears,
sealed their hearts.
Not because your truth is wrong—
but because understanding you
would require them to change.
And change…
is something their pride will never allow.

And you know what’s worse?
Sometimes you catch yourself still trying.
Still hoping—
that maybe this time…
maybe this one last explanation will break through the cracks.
You tell yourself,
"If I just choose the right words,
if I just speak softer,
if I make them see my humanity…"

But every attempt feels like throwing pearls into a pit.
They don’t see value—
they see something to trample on.
And the more you speak,
the more they turn your reasons into ammunition,
until even your honesty is used against you.

They’ll twist your intentions.
They’ll retell your story like they were the victim.
And soon, you’ll watch strangers believe their version of you—
a stranger painted in lies—
while you stand there, screaming silently behind the glass.

It breaks you in ways you can’t put into words.
Not just because they refuse to understand,
but because you realize—
you’ve been trying to convince people
who never had the decency to see you as a person in the first place.

Proverbs 18:2 cuts deep:
“A fool takes no pleasure in understanding,
but only in expressing his opinion.”

And suddenly, it clicks—
They were never listening.
They were only waiting for their turn to speak.

So I stop.
Not because I’ve run out of truth,
but because I’ve run out of energy to waste on the deaf.
I do not need to explain myself to you.
I will let my silence speak for itself.
Sometimes, I believe the best silence heard
is loud enough and clear enough to be heard.

So let them think what they want.
Let them keep their tiny world,
their locked doors,
their dim lights.

Because I’ve learned—
you don’t beg blind eyes to see,
and you don’t plead with deaf ears to hear.
The truth doesn’t shrink just because someone refuses to hold it.
And my worth?
It doesn’t depend on the size of their understanding.

I will not waste another breath
trying to explain myself to people
who have already decided
what I am in their story.

I’m not here to fit in their narrative.
I’m here to write my own.

If there are infinite worlds,
there must be one where umbrellas never close-
hinges locked open like stubborn jaws,
gape-mouthed against walls in patient herds.

No one in their twenties owns one,
their hamster-cage apartments
too small for such luxuries.
They ask for rain jackets on birthdays.
Mary Poppins still drifts down Cherry Tree Lane,
her umbrella never folding,
only floating.

Children carry slips home
for violating umbrella laws,
forging signatures in loopy ink.
The Morton Salt girl wears a slicker,
yellow as a warning flare before the flood.

My mother walking me to kindergarten in rain,
transparent vinyl dome above our heads-
I, the opposite of a fish in its tank.
Her hair plastered to her forehead
by the time we reached the door.
Everyone looks most beautiful
with rainwater running down their face.

In the open-umbrella reality,
time can walk backward-
you can unwater a plant,
unpeel a clementine,
un-kiss someone.
Endings lift again,
fabric billowing, as if the story
had been left open in the wind.
Heather and Mike find the road out.
Rosemary tips the bassinet.

There, perhaps, neither of us was born.
What lay between us
stays open too long,
collecting rain until it sags,
slow and certain, like sugar
in the first storm.

the day has flared
and fallen

into fire
clouds climb

in silence
the trees whisper

something green
in their mystery

in places
wait the oranges

and reds of autumn
in places

wait the whites
and blues of winter

sometimes we must
look upon the things

we have no name for

A warm wind touched my face.
I walked out into the open space,
I saw a blurry, fading horizon.
Somewhere, you are,
I am here, after a sleepless night,
Writing another reflection,
Tired like an empty battery.

I do not like the masks that shout.
The fight over who is right.
I do not want an analysis.
I touch the bark of the tree,
I hug the birch with my arms.
I see its white pages,
Written with irregular lines,
Torn, fluttering in the wind,
Which I cannot read.

Her eyes look straight into me,
They understand –
How well they understand me.
The rustle of leaves lessens the tension.
Autumn will come soon,
The summer wind whispers to me:
This country, this language,
These people, these doubts.

This is not blind luck,
This is your blessing,
Purple, rainy months, a fleshy heart,
Falling hair, joy when relief comes,
Crying into a pillow –
So as not to disturb another’s dreaming
About the so-called reality.

Bare feet touch the ground.
I tread carefully on the edge of worlds,
To be both here and there
With my integrity.
I am everything and nothing.
I am gestures, epilepsy,
The belief that I see human thoughts,
Inconsistent with what they say.

Blue, sun, and somewhere you.
How good that you stayed.
When everyone was saying:
She is different,
She talks to ghosts.
You stayed, showing me
Your true face.