Once I tried to change the story.
I opened a new book beside my life as Story,
wherein I lay down my misgivings like a lady undressing;
At the end of a long journey, reaching a warm, safe place,
In the process she apologetically exposes her scars.
(How could I start off something good pretending?)
The excitement of other eyes reading, and seeking: To be sought after!
This unexpected reaction filled my clean lines up- blurred the narrative.
I could not carry two stories. Two selves,
and one loved; the other simple and careless.
Lost was I to my tales. Too many truths to be understood.
Ashamed, I folded into my mind.
Leaving him was a lot like closing a book and
placing it high on a shelf-
out of sight.
That’s what I’ve done to the endeavor.
If you ask me why,
I will tell you to remember being a child
Up first one morning,
you are waiting to play, to have breakfast,
but you stretch up to catch the sun rising
and you know it means something more
than games and bellies.
Understand that telling and retelling,
this brought me back to the rising sun.