I’m petsitting two French bulldogs right now. They both are hyper when I come home, but tend to chill out fast. They sleep most of the day, and wake up just to eat. Pretty sure one has amnesia, she always forgets who I am.
Some days, she smiles
and I’m whole again.
Pen scratches, dirty dishes
It happened again,
An unwelcomed guest
Crossed paths before
Cut, cut, cut
the young girl’s hair falls to the floor.
You ask yourself, who will I be now?
Seeing is believing.
A sea of red in a crowd of voices,
people who were once separated.
She speaks and swallows back the words
as soon as they leave her tongue,
a delayed censoring.
Although I haven’t climbed these stairs in years
they always sound the same
under my feet,
creak and splinter,
in the same spots.
It finally happened; the girl’s gone mad.
It took one moment, took all that she had,
and amid the sunken stars that fell from the sky,
you can sift through them, find reasons to cry.
She was meant to bloom,
to plant her feet in the dirt and grow.
She can’t get comfortable,
but wants to throw out
a sober retelling of emotions.