No nighttime is upon me. October is just a month.
It is cold and darkness is waking.
Not within me. In the clouds.
I am alone. My heart beats. I feel the earth move. She moves.
The earth is moving, she is sobbing, singing, doing
something I don't know what it is she is doing. I don't know
the heart within. She finds me moving within movement.
You moved to Ohio without me. Without a way to go.
You said you loved her. Your shoelaces were untied. I didn't
I don't like anything I've ever written. I don't like anything
I've ever read, aloud, or in my head.
The moon shines down. No nighttime upon me.
My chin hurts painfully, every Sunday. The sun shines down.
The clouds are overhead. No stories are written. I am a story
within a story. I am tired. I want to rest. There isn't any rest,
so much work, so much work! My mother told me not to swear.
She told me not to do a lot of things. The flowers are opening
and it is not even spring. The flowers are opening in bloom.
Opening like the surgeon who opened my chest when I was one years old.
Opening like a door that was closed. You said you would never forgive me.
I don't want your pity. My heart is tired. I am tired. Why can't you
understand? The darkness is within my beating heart. He said he didn't
like the noise.
The dog walks down the street, its tail wagging.
He barks at nothing. It is the bark of a tree. I am angry on the inside.
Nothing can make me stop moving. I am a mover. I move every three years,
sometimes I wonder if my parents are FBI agents, insurgents of Canada
and the far north.
It is cold. The winter winds chill me to the bone. I am alone in my bed,
wondering if anyone notices I am alive. Most of the time,
they do not care, or want to understand.
I believe in things. I don't believe in everything. The dog barks down
the street again. The wind is moving.