Sometimes
I want to scream at the world so that I have someone to blame for the pain, no
one else listens. And later as I walk
down the wasteland of an alleyway I’ll see the fears and regrets people thought
that they threw away, but really just put a mask on and sent running into the
hidden corners of the broken city. Then the alley cat will rub against my leg
and a memory will rush by, grazing my cheek. Normal people found in a dark
alley in the dead of night all alone would stop walking and start running, but
normality is like asking the sun to never set, it’s not possible, ‘cause life
doesn’t work that way. So that little memory that most would ignore I listen
too. It has strengthened with age and screams of the people it’s visited: the old man’s coffee table, the little girls
backpack, the sewer rat’s home, and the babies last day. And you know what? I
love every single one of those stories because those creatures and people are
doing what they know best. That man has been drinking coffee since 1962, the
year he started working a job that took more back breaking pain than giving
birth; and the little girl will skip through her life for now because she’s
only three, and that’s what three year olds do; and the sewer rat doesn’t know
his home disgusts humans, and honestly he probably doesn’t care, so he’ll keep
living and breathing and his soul won’t be bleeding, because he’s happy as ever
with the life that he leads. That last story of the girl down the street who
gave birth to her baby three weeks too early and had it die in her arms. The
day it opened its eyes for the first time and took in its first breath was the
same day it was placed in a grave.
Hopefully someday
that slimy son of a drug dealer who will find this memory next can make enough
money to put his kids through school, ‘cause they never did anything wrong,
just put one foot in front of the other to keep moving and living and
breathing.
So here’s to hoping
that the thieves of the world get a good find and the police catch the right
murderer. I’m raising my glass to those
who died innocent with their heads held high and those who died guilty but
found happiness.
But all this
nonsense, it boils down to my fury provoked speeches and thought filled rants
of right and wrong, each word on the page, and every sentence I never could get
my pen to write, are because of the moment I saw you through different eyes. I
got scared and ran from the fear of my own mind and thought that by having a
cause, a rally, a protest, or speaking out for other people’s problems I could
cover up all this madness inside me. And I sure hope to the genderless god that
eyes aren’t windows to the soul and looks can’t kill, cause if they can you’ll
die knowing I love you, and I’ll hate you forever because of it.
And other people’s
issues always seem better than your own even when you know that they’re not. I
wish I could tell you how every time I glance over my heart plummets into a
deep abyss of panic and agony because I know I could never tell you what I’m
thinking. Cause all I am is a girl with secrets and lies and bronze colored
eyes and a broken vocal cord.
And my vocal
cord-yeah it’s dying, and my eyes-they’re used to crying, and lying just comes
naturally now. So maybe someday, my funeral some would say, you’ll look back
and you’ll see the girl you once knew.
And a long time from now, you’ll be looked in
the eyes by an old friend of mine and you’ll learn the story of the girl with
the heart, and you’ll listen as you’re told it was broken a while back and the
pain of it killed her on impact. So when you visit the cold stone that they say
is her grave, just remember: heartbreak-it kills, since your lungs of
hopelessness fill and the oxygen can’t find enough room.
