I was
Supposed to be good at it.
The words were supposed to flow,
Unconditionally. I was supposed
To make grown adults huddle
Under their bedsheets, booklight
Spreading a faint halo over the
Pages in a way they hadn’t done
Since they were a child.

I was
Supposed to be a storyteller;
A way for people to feel heard
As they escaped from a world
They wished they didn’t know—
But, now, at least, understood a
Little better. I was supposed to. . .
I was supposed to. . . Did I
Overestimate myself?

I was never
A prolific writer, brimming with
The prose that made the final
Page of a book feel like a funeral,
But I thought I could craft people
That resonated, that seemed real;
It seems I was wrong.  

I was
Supposed to realize what I wanted

To be a long, long time ago, and
Now. . . Well, now, I'm only
Supposed to move on.

Hit the mat, hit the gravel,
Fall on your face, get up
Again and again; you’re
Bleeding and torn, your
Hair falls around crooked
Shoulders, and you shake
As you stand there—where
Has the enemy gone? You
Look at your fists and only
See shards of glass—looking
Up, you meet your own eyes. 

Mirrors huddle all around,
Broken and crying blood,
But you could have sworn
That they were real people,
That your fist had connected
With a human jaw, and as
You watch, the mirrors repair
Themselves like a jagged
Smile; and you know that
its time to fight again.

Bobble heads on teetering shelves,

There are so many eyes, looking


Down on me. I try to reach up to

Still their shaking heads, but even


When I jump, I cannot seem to reach.