poetry is easy
and I don’t trust the legacy of time
memories escape me
and I stutter around the moment
where I hit reboot.
I don’t know what was true from before
Or what was lies I told myself
How much of my misery was real, created or imagined.
It’s frightening to look back on your memories
with such a deep disconnected distrust
to look in the mirror at a past version of self
and say - I don’t remember being you.
My head has been thrown forward too many times
and body fallen more than ninety
there is a jaggedness to creation
like a rough river rock that gets tumbled into a crystal
and to praise its natural beauty,
forgetting what we did to it.
I touch my reflection
and I think,
where have you been all this time?