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Alex Mar 2019
I'm lying on this mattress just thinking
About all the ways this could go wrong
The world over and time again.

And all these nights have me thinking
That maybe there’s no true meaning to anything,
And maybe the real meaning is that nothingness.

But all these people have me thinking
About how much we can make out of nothing,
About how little we can make out of something,

And all this blood has me thinking
That maybe I should have stayed home tonight.
Alex Mar 2019
“Selective mute,” you call me.
Listening more than I speak.
I watch and wait in studious silence,
Hear your thoughts before they're said.
Baited breath, edge of my seat –
Your tongues are duller than they seem to think,
And yet I remain silent.
Perhaps I am only biding my time;
Trying to find the right moment,
When I –
Weak and fragile beast as though I may be –
Discover the words I need.
The words to illuminate what you have wrought,
To rip away that thin veil
strip by cheaply-woven strip.
Perhaps I am only searching for the opportune moment
To reveal the damage you have done
And the pain you have dealt;
To show the deep bruises shown
red and blue in the darkness;
To prove that you were the one doing the treading.
They say I am selectively mute.
The wise have something to say,
The ignorant have to say something.
I watched a man in a white pick-up truck call the police on a couple of young people of color who were angry because his PEACOCKS had attacked their cat and I thought I should think about that for a second. Then I decided that maybe I should do more than think about it, but what are you to do when the people who you are supposed to be the ones you call upon for help are the ones doing the harm? Whatever are we meant to do?
Alex Mar 2019
Those words
Are the only ones I have left to speak,
And I’m realising now that all they are, is lies.
Those arms were never wrapped around my waist,
Only my throat, my heart,
And I never thought I would like the flavour of dying,
But I guess everything tastes good
When all you’ve ever held in your mouth was smoke.
All I have left anymore is the pain of your thorns in my side,
And the whites of those eyes, staring at me in the dark,
But you and I were never friends anyway.
We never even spoke anyway.
I didn’t even know you anyway.
You drove that stake in my chest anyway.

— The End —