Sunday, November 20, 2011

nineteen

from up here, the city shimmers, lights spreading across the horizon like a beacon, welcoming some road-weary traveler home. 10:24 p.m. and i am home, restless as ever, wishing so much for that front porch overlooking the river. the one where i will pour my words out...the ultimate blood-letting, once and for all. there are stories within me, but these days, i pay them no mind.

also flying below the radar? the pale circles under my eyes i cover with make-up, the swollen nerve in my foot, throbbing with every step, the plaque on my molars in need of scraping, my dusty nightstand, the kitchen sink, lacklustre and waterstained.

i have learned how how to become one of those people who works too many hours, who closes off and tamps down, who smiles and moves on. i have learned how to forget. how to unclench the fist. i see now that there is little reward for the efforts on this side of anything.

there is also no rest for the weary. i read it once and know it's true.

i came to this city in need of a voice, in search of freedom. i found it and i gave it away and i took it back again, only to find out that i was who i had always been. tonight i want to pack the bags in my closet and go find my river. the stories have waited long enough. their time has come.

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