I’ve been accepted in a number of small-town organizations, Constructed by some confetti-fetishists who craved nothing more than To write their thoughts onto the underside of a bridge, Abandoned due to incredible uprisings of what some would call faux water.
They’d told me, Multiple times actually, That I was bound to their ideals and morals forever; That they’d essentially taken the parts of my brain that mattered And the sections of my heart I knew couldn’t feel emotion but Hoped dangerously that they, under suitable conditions, just might And tossed them into a box Snuck down to the river Let it drift away as I slept alone.
I’ve been afraid to try new things, always afraid, Always wandering about with a finger to the air and a Paintbrush to mark where I‘ve been.
To think that they “saved me,” Or “kept me from a suicidal afterparty” is now Only a thought rather than action.
And now Slowly, gently, He lift a glass of dust to his mouth Wondering who he used to be As I watch myself from the corner.