You felt yourself carved into stone.
You imagined you had history
and couldn’t budge.
But history doesn’t work that way.
We believe it’s final,
but it’s malleable, changes based on perspective
adjusts itself to each person’s reality.
Our bodies are soft
and our minds plush.
Tufts taken out with a bit of picking and plying,
but not impossible.
You’ve set up guards,
enough to protect Queen Mary,
and you won’t let a single mouse pass.
Is the life of an
one that brings you happiness
or helps you to store the string of skeletons
and fully packed suitcases away.
You hide behind these layers of bricks,
yet no matter how tall you build them,
up into the marshmallow sky,
you keep growing
though I can still see your brown hair.
It stems from the smallest crack in the fabric of conversation.
From the distance in your eyes, the glossy lost in thought,
lost in a field of thoughts, behind rose bushes and palm trees.
The rise in decibels of your voice, as if it will get your point across more,
as if you have something to spit out, something venomous and purposeful.
The steam coming from your ears, a kettle boiling past temp,
frustrated at the fact that a question was asked, an inquiring “why?”
From each one of you at the table,
a constant circling, spiralling, looping conversation.
A self-centered, feigning of interest.
You ask and then you silence, fearing a voice that isn’t your own.