Can’t or Won’t

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Want to know why I’m here? I can’t make it. At the rate I am going, I won’t get anything published. Sometimes I think I am something out of ordinary but really - that’s just what I am. I have too many feelings and I think about too many things and I put my stuff on hold because I think I can make a difference by sacrificing something.

I haven’t made a difference. I’m just as lost as everyone else.

And I write because language is something I can throw around. And I can’t disappear into music because someone broke my heart and I couldn’t play my flute anymore because it hurt too much. And I didn’t know it would hurt to part with my flute until it hurt. The boy’s gone and so is the music.

I painted too but somewhere along the way I had forgotten how. And I write about it because I am dumb that way. I could pick up a brush and make a mess on cheap canvas. I could. But do I? I don’t.

This infinite cowardice. The can’t the won’t. I can own up to the truth but I can’t trample my stupid fears to death. And the cockroach. Lord, the cockroach. I talk about getting my future kids to squash them for me like it was something funny - but I imagine that would make me the horrible parent that I never want to become. Stupid tests that I keep putting off because I think I have to for some noble effing reason.

I refuse to look into the mirror, but these ghosts go through the walls and they haunt me.

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