A tiny and fierce yesterday hangs from my pants leg in full
attack mode. The angry blue eyes of my father stare at me over a denim
graveyard. Convicts are no more sinful than I am. I just didn’t get caught this time. Jesus and my
mother cry in harmony. Sharp echoes stab my tear ducts over and over. Toxic sounds from within yellow the ancient kitchen walls like nicotine years. I
lay down my hollow Paper Mache cross, and pick up a bottle of an earthy purple remedy.
In about an hour, everything but me will be dead. No matter how many repetitive
ravens I kill off, she’ll never come home. Home no longer exists.
Self-conviction, it’s the killer in me…I don’t know why, but this piece brought back a memory for me. I used to wear a cross my brother sent home from jail; he said it was made out of underwear elastics…I used to get ridiculed for wearing it…I think we are all “Guilty” some just know how to break out of prison easier than others…Or maybe they just become more comfortable living in the confined spaces of thought…I’m pretty sure you broke out though man!
What a thought provoking and intriging piece. I took so much yet got so little. The only true thing I felt which is a feeling I am all too familiar with and that is guilt. But I suppose it takes one guilty conscience to recognize another.
A lot emotion behind this. xoxoxo
Self-conviction, it’s the killer in me…I don’t know why, but this piece brought back a memory for me. I used to wear a cross my brother sent home from jail; he said it was made out of underwear elastics…I used to get ridiculed for wearing it…I think we are all “Guilty” some just know how to break out of prison easier than others…Or maybe they just become more comfortable living in the confined spaces of thought…I’m pretty sure you broke out though man!