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, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4381329
By Thomas Bresson – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25184841