I am the witness with a heart full of seen it all, been there, done that, posted it on Facebook memories. I am a heart twisted to sleep. Turned and wrung out, left out to dry but soaked in nightmare sweat before the terrors are done giving their speeches.


What if I was only a secondhand witness? Should you believe how I relay the hearsay?

What if I am a storyteller?

What if I read it in a book?

. . . the morning paper?

. . . my newsfeed?


I couldn’t have unseen it any other way.


Somebody just ruined a perfectly good view of nothing much to see here.


No need to know what for. You got it or you don’t.


I am the last surviving member of my experience.

I am a head full of half-eaten desires. I remember eating apples as they rotted in my mouth. I could taste when they turned.

I can smell you in my armpits. The scent your head had when you slipped from the chest to the side. I remember more sleep than I care to recall.

I was wrong. I still am. Some things will never change.


Hollow is preferable to hallowed ground. I want to dig in. Find a new home under it all. I want to find solace in catacombs. I want to be a fox in its den. An arrow in its quiver. Bat in its cave.

Give me a hideout and a codename. Keep this identity a secret.


Self assured or self ashore? It’s hard to tell some days. These days. I’m all wet but I also hold the sound of the ocean in my ears.


Who can see me? My cloak of invisibility is malfunctioning (again). My luck is running out. Being seen never has any good consequences. The outcome always leaves me with another cautionary tale and nothing to brag about. Well, that’s what I get for wanting any sense of pride. I’m better off without.

Starvation is a virtue.


This is all there is. That is nothing here. These are not those. The spectrum has broken. The flexibility proved to be less flexible as more proof was needed.

Two ends exist. Who knows what this means?


There’s someone for everyone. Safe to say I am no one. With this lack I leave no trace but the agony of a blinded cyclops.

I am an s.o.s. washing away on the sand. A smoke signal lost to darkening skies.


I think I said just the opposite yesterday.


I am a wandering eye and a deaf ear. I am a club foot and claw hands.

I am the time it takes to count out all your fingers and toes. I am the moment a child discovers itself in the mirror. I am the shadow I am afraid of.


There’s a chance of rain. The streets will take their chances. They have no other choice. I am a witness waiting to see what happens next. I am the headstart. I am the left behind. I am under the weather. I am plotting my revenge. I have a battlecry. I am gathering a posse.

I am halfhearted. My gut is busted. My sides split. I laughed. The streets did too. It was in self-defense. We took refuge in humor. We’re allies and refugees. We take sanctuary in the filth of the world pouring down on us.


I am the lost voice. I am the get up and gone. I am what didn’t last forever. I am broken trust. I am gaptoothed. I am air escaping the life raft to be replaced by water, by fear. I am the sole survivor of my disgrace.

I am the dream that threatened me. I am an empty bladder. I don’t know where my insides went. What they saw, did, been, posted. I lost touch with me maybe for the last time. I think I’ve been blocked.