there’s an open
wound on main street
and i wish people would
stop asking about it
because every question pulls
the hole a little wider
something was always
just a little bit
wrong
a constant drip
in the fridge
a fruit fly trapped
in the bake case
missing corners
of floor tiles
pictures hanging
slightly crooked
one foot of a table
unscrewed to a wobble
the rattle
of the heater
smiles from those
i couldn’t trust
a tiny pinprick of
stress behind my eyes
every year was
the year that would
make it or break it
so nobody was
surprised
except those who
couldn’t see the scuffs
last year
things were supposed
to be so good
everyone talking
mad **** about their
incredible ideas
i had a few
ideas of my own
nobody ever had to
teach me how to
dream big
overachieve
overexert myself
and fall hard
the quiche crusts stuck
to the bottoms of pans
and there was no way to
get the slice out
without the whole entire
thing falling apart
i might have been
the first slice to go
but at least i got
out of there
before the hand that
pulled me out
was the hand that
dropped the pan
a glass pie plate
shattered and
the way things were
supposed to be suddenly
over
just
like
that
and i’m still
reeling
on the sidewalk
staring at the
empty shell of
something i once loved
big hopes
big dreams
big plans
small town
too small to
hold them all
every piece of my
future points
backwards
arms of a clock
working their way
into the past
it’s not in how
the damage was done
but in how you
heal from it
there’s an
open wound on
main street
maybe if we gave
south street stitches
we could pull it closed
but still i question
my existence as if
scones and coffee
and thursday mornings
before sunup were
the only things that
gave me
stability
maybe
they were
maybe people
pull themselves into
an orbit around that
which keeps them grounded
an orbit of
routine and the
dissonance needed
to stir ice cubes
in a plastic cup
to create peace
in the moment
of chaos
or maybe
the one place
that always felt
like home to me
was just a cafe
on the four corners
and now there’s
an open wound
not so much
on main street
but the pocket of my
heart where hope lives
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 9:20 PM UTC
there’s an open
wound on main street
and i wish people would
stop asking about it
because every question pulls
the hole a little wider
something was always
just a little bit
wrong
a constant drip
in the fridge
a fruit fly trapped
in the bake case
missing corners
of floor tiles
pictures hanging
slightly crooked
one foot of a table
unscrewed to a wobble
the rattle
of the heater
smiles from those
i couldn’t trust
a tiny pinprick of
stress behind my eyes
every year was
the year that would
make it or break it
so nobody was
surprised
except those who
couldn’t see the scuffs
last year
things were supposed
to be so good
everyone talking
mad **** about their
incredible ideas
i had a few
ideas of my own
nobody ever had to
teach me how to
dream big
overachieve
overexert myself
and fall hard
the quiche crusts stuck
to the bottoms of pans
and there was no way to
get the slice out
without the whole entire
thing falling apart
i might have been
the first slice to go
but at least i got
out of there
before the hand that
pulled me out
was the hand that
dropped the pan
a glass pie plate
shattered and
the way things were
supposed to be suddenly
over
just
like
that
and i’m still
reeling
on the sidewalk
staring at the
empty shell of
something i once loved
big hopes
big dreams
big plans
small town
too small to
hold them all
every piece of my
future points
backwards
arms of a clock
working their way
into the past
it’s not in how
the damage was done
but in how you
heal from it
there’s an
open wound on
main street
maybe if we gave
south street stitches
we could pull it closed
but still i question
my existence as if
scones and coffee
and thursday mornings
before sunup were
the only things that
gave me
stability
maybe
they were
maybe people
pull themselves into
an orbit around that
which keeps them grounded
an orbit of
routine and the
dissonance needed
to stir ice cubes
in a plastic cup
to create peace
in the moment
of chaos
or maybe
the one place
that always felt
like home to me
was just a cafe
on the four corners
and now there’s
an open wound
not so much
on main street
but the pocket of my
heart where hope lives