he doesn’t need them now. Like I do. Give me some now, please.
How it goes was written long ago. I just place my tracks in theirs, leading,
god knows where. I was at the station, waiting for my prescription, ready
to take it all down again. Watch me tear from here
all the way down. It is so written and bloody-worn by
my forebears, men and women of presence and self, people
who entered their lives full-sworn to move it to be
as it should be, and by their own reckoning. And, I, beaten,
bruised, dripping in shame, here I come. Here. Now.
I claim my life.
No comments:
Post a Comment