he chose me
fresh with still-wet hair spit on my pubescent idea of fair, a wad on my head to add to my dread that he might lash out about a girl as wrong as a protest song
what is tomorrow?
what is tomorrow? does memory make me? can it break me? am i what was said? was i led to dread? what’s in my head?
to Then i am God in my head, directing with dread. humidity oppresses me with memory. rain washes away pain. thunderstorms are the norm until i say sunshine. these thoughts are mine. but, who am i, Then?
Note to Hero
Note to Hero i robbed my solitude in the light of day surrendered my right to say i am me i am free dread climbed into my bed when i sighed you took me for a ride