Yard Sale of Thoughts

The voice is there,

but I’m not listening.

it has my ear,

but I abandon it

with feeling.

A nobody.

Like the lightning,

I’m always scheming.

November downpour

tears down the railings

between our feelings.

“We’ve lived here long enough,” you say.

I memorize the custom paneling.

“It’s my fault,” I say, without meaning.

I’m programed to be stoic, unfeeling.

An unripe mango, I’m bitter below the peeling.

I shift below the satin sheets,

an offer, self-serving.

In front: a stone, cold screen.

Above: a stone, cold ceiling.

I try to spread my wings,

be the superhero,

my soul redeeming,

but I’m actually the villain.

©2024 | K.Hartless

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