Dec 2
The things that find
me on a Tuesday:
broken,
ugly,
like me,
like the mirror that
stares at me,
waiting for me
to wake up,
waiting for me to
fall asleep,
waiting for me
to smile,
waiting for me
to surrender.
And that I do,
for whatever
reasons,
to sell me a
certain rationality.
For meaning is now
a distant memory,
fading from
my thoughts.
I see nothing but
restless eyes,
and that is
all I see.
I’ve spent all my
feelings worrying
about everything,
and everything has
passed me by,
as autumn
passes the trees,
as summer
passes my youth.
And as winter
makes a home,
I find myself locking
the doors,
drawing the
curtains,
lest the light
falls into my
sorrows,
and the birds
sing to me,
telling me there’s
still a tomorrow
to suffer.
