I am starting another poem that I do not know the name of,
sitting at my computer screen and thinking of all the mean things
that have never been said to me.
I am helplessly falling through cracks between the dirty shoes
of friends that don’t even look at my face anymore, who
I don’t know how to face anymore.
It’s not a game, but I’m just trying to play my best hand: nothing impulsive.
Don’t let things go so easily. Grab onto their ankles.
Shake them awake. This is not fate it you don’t let it be.
There’s a fraying red thread to cut and I have the scissors.
I don’t know if they know this.
They’ve been sticking out of my boot for months and I’ve sworn
I have nothing to do with it. I won’t ask the hesitant question.
This season is a cold one in more ways than one. Skating on thin ice
has been anything other than fun but I am slowly regaining my balance,
powdering the bruises and appearing fleshy white again.
This is purity but there’s a voice telling me to screw it for once,
to be dirty: to cut the thread in confidence and walk away quietly.
But I have always found leaving too easy. A drifter,
but I’ve yet to pick up any skill in thrifting for gold.
I’m told I’ve been lucky; I have. But we’re on a cliff that’s slowly crumbling,
shoes not gripping. And I’ve illuded myself for longer than necessary.
There’s no grappling hooks left and all the ropes are fraying.
I hope I won’t feel any worse for staying.
“A Lesson in Not Leaving”OR “Eluding A Fate That Will Come Eventually Anyway” by ck (allotropique)