Tomatoes in the garden. A bug sits chewing on dirt in the garden.
A flash, a movement, a sound of voices,
the metaphors look at me from behind pained eyelids.
I am not who I say I am; I am a piece of paper,
a book, I am something that is not even real.
No one cares to know me. To them, I am a ghost,
something to be stomped on. You see me climbing
up and down a moss-covered wall; you see me staring
in the windows of houses with families. My mother stares
at me dully, with eyes like glass; trying to get me
to take out the trash, do my taxes, get married to a man
I don't love.
I used to love you, stranger, used to love you and wait up
for you at night, while my bed is cold and the sheets
are cold and others act like I don't exist.
I wish I hadn't met you. That would have been better for
the both of us. You put on a good act of being a nice