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You ask me If I know the way back home from here. I sing the words, “yes, dear” back to you like I’m someone else. You say “alright” because you’ve got nothing else to say right now; I respect that. I keep my eyes on the road. I’m not quite sure where you’re looking at this point
I wake before you and in the darkness,
I don’t recognize you right away.
Your lashes bring their own light,
full like fields of crows,
a murder of crows. The birds nested
on the hill I’m sure I’ve told you about
in front of the tomb, white stones holding
Nobody knows what really goes on in her mind, her life. In school Sarah is always happy always smiling. To everybody that is Sarah. Home, Sarah is a little different. Home, Sarah is sad, lonely, mean. Every day she is hiding, hiding from those mean words, the icy glare, the horrible thoughts.
Your hopeless little tragedies
Spill so hopelessly on the floor.
The ones that take over all the attention,
The ones so goddamn impossible to ignore.
The not so gentle news
Is burning away, all this trust once built
Built for no reason at all,
Rain danced gleefully across the tombstones as if mocking the dead. The now wet moss on older parts of the graveyard made the ground slick. It grew where other forms of life refused for reasons of their own, yet sparingly did the moss do so as if even it respected burial grounds.
It’s not about what you told me,
but what I chose to believe.
Nothing feels worse than living
an imaginary dream.
And they occur so often and freely
whenever Satan creeps in.
By the time I breathe, and count to ten
it’s over and I have to start again.