Dying Truth

8.8.15

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A tarot reader in New Orleans once said to me:

“He will come.”

 

And I hold onto that dying truth

Like the last shards of a broken version of myself

When I cry myself to sleep.

 

I am sure I have put myself back together again

But there seems to have been a missing piece

Although I have searched

Through fog and dust and tears and blood

I can’t find it

I just keep looking

And I’ll keep waiting,

Until he shows up

On my doorstep

With ice cream and coloring books.

 

 

I used to color in the psych wards

Even though it was against the rules

They let me fingerpaint

That one time when I had escaped my reality

 

Even though images of my death

flashed

I felt somehow more at peace than ever

When I gave the best of my pictures

To the young girl who was going to Bryce–

At least I was somehow useful

though it was so sad:

“I have no one to take care of me.”

 

I realized that’s all I ever wanted

 

But can he find me?

Does he feel as hopeless

As I feel every now and then?

 

At least I’m free

Cause when I was in Gen Pop that time

A girl said:

“She’s a richy-rich girl, but she ‘aight.”

Which has basically been everyone’s assessment

Of me always….

Although, as Mr. Nice Nasty pointed out:

“That’s the best compliment you could get in jail.”

 

 

At least now

I can say I have lived

 

most people just do what they’re suppose to

 

I’ve let go of the life

I’m  “suppose” to have

 

never really setting out to get married,

I suppose I can’t complain I am still single

 

But I do feel a twinge of regret,

Like, well, what now?

Even though he fell off that train

He probably has more peace

Than I.

 

Although it’s not a bad life,

It’s just that I get lonely sometimes

Waiting for the man

That tarot reader spoke of.

 

 

Note: The tarot reading was indeed accurate—I was married 10.15.17.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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