they say things are still beautiful outside

[a prose poem]

i only want to create, which i have come to believe is a byproduct of loving. i try to silence the modern circus which daily seeps into every pore. i can turn the phone off, but i don’t. they say things are still beautiful outside if you look up from the blue-lit cube in your palm.

the clock marches on, regardless of attempts to hit the pause button. there are things i have forgiven others for, but cannot forgive in myself. i carry guilt like a satchel of rocks — the stones leech poison and i drink every drop, knowing this will only keep me hungry. guilt is an empty promise spoken too quietly. guilt is a martyr.

the orange man wants to make my country the 51st state even though it is the second largest country on our planet. i say take it — it has been unconscious and strapped to a stretcher for five years. heartbeat nearly undetectable, hardly breathing. bring food and firewood. i want to hear your stories.

i don’t care to feed the ever-grinding money machine my flesh and soul because they’re all i’ve got. i want to watch your face light up from a memory you thought went missing. to share my quietest thoughts and have someone say “me, too”.

to become a moth inside a rotting log inside a forest older than time. then, to emerge.

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