Three Per


On soft bed
sunken, bones touch
unforgiving cold ground.
Weight of the
world on weary
shoulders, weary bones.
Staring at dancing
lights through cracked
windows, mottled by
moths reaching for
faraway warmth. Like
me… Now… Here.

Can you hear
me calling, calling?
These thoughts are
no longer comforting,
they tire me,
all this… this
juvenility masked as
depth, pseudo-profound,
lust dancing as
softness and wisdom.

Pretty words and
puff, chest puffed
out to scare,
flashing bright strobes
to mesmerize and
distract the unwitting.
Look closely! The
facade has cracked,
oozing angst, bitter,
ironic, sarcastic, scared.

When will you
see what I
am, have always
been, hidden behind
white teeth (white
fangs, reddish-tinted)?
This is me,
rose bush-thorned,
pink, green, brown,
sharp, calloused, stiff.

Bent, bending, bending,
towards the sun,
now that I
am juxtaposed against
myself and what
I could become.


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