I jump at shiny penny treasures, so lustrous in luminescent metal.
I remember wishes as facts. I see beauty in the void.
I spin proof from ether and evidence into mist.
My empty palms feel the weight.
The smallest truth becomes the foundation and I’m surprised when the universe won’t remain balanced on a sword tip resting on top of a pea. I stand there like a zombie in the clamor of the fall. Again. Again. Reset.
Goldfish in their bowls, like me, have a no memory.
If I look hard enough my eyes see the outlines of dreams unrealized.
I read into it and under it and through it to the things un-writ. It is my special gift.
I’m left then with my thoughts, sorting and naming things I invented over and over and over ending always here, right here.
Creativity is jarring because magic is only magic if you don’t see the wires and don’t know the tricks. I can erase all of the wires and trips and switches for the magician. I make it so easy.
I’m so sorry for all of it that I apologize to the table, whether I bump it or not.
It is a special gift. I can manifest all fear, dancing always on my grave, and taking the ax from your grasp to rest you.
I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.
Let me help.
Let me make it.
Let it be mine.
Let it go and then take it back.
Push me. Pull me. Bite me. Take a chunk. Tear from my grasp and throw the little glass soap bubbles I’ve made and break them onto to the floor. Grind their bones with your heal while you dance almost unaware.
It’s all me. Of course…seeing myself in doll houses.
I’m supposed to be walking by, seeing you while you don’t see me, all the light and heat inside, my chest full of envy.