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I have been stuck between a time and place
that thrives between barriers and headspace
sometimes too afraid to be blind
to where the corners start and end,
more often too free to come back
from eternally travelling within me.
There are characters that come knocking at my door,
unaware it has always been left wide open.
Perhaps this has been part of the problem.
I have been too inviting,
and you cannot believe
so you knock with polite fright
searching for a new omen.
I can sit and talk about the crack in my ceiling all day,
come up with a silly analogy of
how accurately it seems to describe life circumstances
when you tear down every layer of pretend
to let the dark mingle with light
so that they finally understand
and say that they’ve met
like long lost lovers who are complete,
who’ve complemented each other
before they even knew
what it really meant
to compliment one another.
But before I can complete my thought,
you have handed me anecdotes of temporary happiness
and all the ways I can cover up my cracks with indifference,
boasting that apathy is new age deliverance
and how, in time, these feelings will take on a colourful appearance
and how, with enough make up, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference
between a devil draped in shepherd’s clothing
and an angel bathed in sinful yearning.
I do not know how to consistently rhyme,
much like you cannot seem to make up your mind
about which belief to wear next,
which religion you should preach in a text
or the next great policy that will end every great war.
I don’t even think we know who we’re politicising for anymore.
So before you come knocking at my door,
I have lost with the ones I thought cared about me.
They were interested in hunting their next tragedy,
in search of the ones who’d let them be,
the versions of me that aren’t as free.
Every demon has their partner, can’t you see?
I found her in you and I, still in the making-
hurting, musing, but definitely not faking.