My ears are muffled by the will that I carry
Because of how I anxiously find my way into my clothes
and into halls and into a room.
and wondering how I will fit through the door
wondering who will notice when I leave
How long before I notice when I should leave
I’m my own interrogator
The tension in my shoulders pairs well with the honest look on my face.
I wait for the clues to be revealed like how we all wait for parts of each other to come
out, to fall off
It’s the same process as a flower wilting and becoming stiff over the curfew of weeks
We slowly begin to accept the presence of a small hard stem.
One of little weight, easily toppled over by a slight nudge
or the wind.
Words have become the wind.
I wish to live as if i am made of plastic
For convenience and long lasting durability, because to be so moldable and receptive
comes with downsides.
I can fit into any shape, I follow a pattern, loosening myself to fill up a space.
And yes stitching the lines together to make up a lace of moments is a rewarding
process.
But when it starts to storm I can see myself unravel.
I'm suddenly the chalk washing away on a damp sidewalk.
As hopscotch numbers turn into illegible streaks
And waves of pigment are falling into the holes of a drain. I am reminded that the
children stopped playing.
I am reminded of the silence before the rain even stops.
The children are done playing because they have all grown up.
And it is all gone and I am disintegrated and translucent just
like the puddle nestled on the curb.
But I still take pride in knowing
no one would be able to see their reflection in me if I were opaque.
I know my ears are muffled by my will that I carry
because my options are louder than my actions but I am still listening
Waiting
For anyone to whisper and tell me that I am able
Maybe I am waiting on myself.