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Oct 2013
I can't know what having nerves is like.
I don't want anything anymore.
I was never told by my mother to clean my room.
My room has been ***** ever since just so one day I hope she comes in raising hell just so I'll clean up.
My room remains close friends with the dump because I'm still waiting for that day so I can make it spotless.
I never knew what to do with those mother's day cards I was forced to make in school.
Maybe they were delivered to her by some divine mail man that never showed up.
Maybe I wasn't on their map, maybe I'm not on the map, maybe I shouldn't be on the map, maybe I should burn that map down with cliches of passion, maybe I should make my own map of the hills I've crossed, the ones I never tried to cross, the places I've been, the places I've never been, the place I was yesterday, the place I was today, the place I'll go tomorrow, and where it all ends.
X marks the spot.
I've stood upon the soil she cried on.
Up grew the tongues of people that could tell me "what really happened."
I chose to spray pesticides on those beautiful plants.
Instead I let weeds grow there.
They told me the truth, but too much of one thing is filling.
So in return I fed them salt so nothing would grow there ever again.
Sodium Chloride silenced the truth, I realized later that the soil sat in my ears and I made myself deaf and shot my foot off.
Sodium Chloride was the cyanide to my soil.
I drew a map of that soil.
It turned into a maze that I never did figure out how to get out of.
I still don't know how to feel, I can't even feel the crumpled map you threw out on how to reach me.
Jordan Smith
Written by
Jordan Smith  Colorado
(Colorado)   
717
 
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