I am no revisionist,

I am a mediator

between rose colored glasses and 

raw red skin. 

When you ask me why I

make things up

she is in me, screaming. 

The good days have melted wax in my palms,

clocks behind my eyelids,

a deep waiting. 

The bad days have the return of

ringing ear drums 

and wondering why

I can’t do it right

like you told me to,

like you told me I don’t do it. 

Those clouds don’t drift off 

cause you wish rain rain go away. 

You don’t want to smile 

just cause you dad told you 

that it is required,

that you’ll really get it if

you don’t play nice. 

I am what I needed in my world,

a revelation 

of possibility

and betterment

and being



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