a vacation week, obviously.

My life goes by, a book of little boxes

Penciled names and times containing

No hint of the stories–

The sorrows, compulsions, memories, grief,

The rage, depression, drugs, abuse. . .

Just little boxes filled with names and times. I wish they

Left no mark on me but

They do.

I witness the stories. I hold the box of secrets. I hear the songs

street rap full of fuck you

ukulele ballads spun out of loss

Some are just broken poetry scratched on arms

or tattooed names of stillborn children.

I take those stories and weave them into new tapestries

I make them fiction and in that world

my alter ego kills rapists and imprisons pedophiles

patrols the streets of my imagination making them safer

A big Rottweiler by her side and a gun in her hand.

In real life I pass a box of tissues. It’s

Never enough but I guess

It’s better than no one knowing the stories

at all.

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