Tuesday, August 13, 2013

brave face.


I’ve known, old friend.
I’ve known.

It took me years to unmask
your many façades,
to realize you try to eliminate
imperfections from life.
You pluck the weeds from your truth
and leave it partial and illusory.

I know this, and I’ve known
that you can’t snap back
from what happened to you.
You can’t fully recover
from what happened to you.

But if a single rose in your garden withered,
would you shake the others from their beds—
tear them up from their roots—
to prevent watching another die?

I’ve known—but what does one say to this?
I’m scared to death of you and this.