When you are born with a silver spoon, your little fingers are already looking

to catch tuberculosis

from some harsh edge which the spoon-factory might have overlooked.

You burst out of childhood’s balloon and you sort of papillon,

a wobbling sky-trill, until you find some wind to spurn you in one direction

or both –

You let the storm in your brain pound you

against the sweetest-sapped of steadfast trees, you sweeten the blood

that rolls down your diary margins with a splash of sugar-tears

against your pillow. You weep until prince charming

never shows up

on his high horse to lift you out of your illness.

Sick of it, one day you scrub it off

with cheap makeup remover and start clean. You fly away to search for

some never-ending nectar joint

in the hopes of forgetting

the troubles you’ve already hopelessly forgotten.

Revoked in return for a sturdy stride, the mature privilege to breathe and hide

even from yourself.

With endings, one size fits most.

You might take root in some mammoth-sucking

mud or in the clay earth kissed by politicians’ running shoes

When you despair on relocating your despair, you are, sadly, healed

So you pass your past illness on

to your best friend – all you can do now – then

Break it off with her

And thus the cycle is perpetuated. The scripture of brokenness, thus revealed.

Everyone thinks: I am different. I can rewrite my future, then,

with me, the system will be broken

but your heart knows

it already is.


Image credits in order of appearance:

By Ildar Sagdejev (Specious) – Own work, GFDL,

By Thomas Bresson – Own work, CC BY 3.0,


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