You are the Big, Bad Wolf, and the house you blow down is not made of hay
or of sticks. The house you blow down is the home I built inside of my chest.
(My heart is far more likely to crumble than a home of sticks or hay.
I wish some day, I could turn my heart into a brick on command.)
The ghosts of my past take my paper heart and rip it into confetti.
(Tear it to shreds without remorse or regret.
When I glue my heart back together, it looks like a construction paper mosaic
or a completed puzzle made of faded scraps of paper.)
Nothing about this is fair, but when you speak, you talk of responsibility
& what you must do, a friendship a decade in the making, and you’re just
Your words curve around the cigarette, and you say something like,
“Babe, if you think life is going to be fair, you’ve got some more growing up to do.”
When you sang, it was never a pretty melody but something you would hear from
the mosh pit of a rock show. It was never pretty, but it was the memories I have of you.
I want to say I forgive you. I want to say that I couldn’t blame you if I tried,
but I blame you, and I could not forgive you.
This is a decade of remembering
and another decade for forgetting.
I’m not callous.
I carry these ghosts with me wherever I go.
I never let go, and maybe that’s why I drag my feet
when I walk ( a thousand ghosts fetter themselves to me,
as light as the solar system, as heavy as a feather).
Maybe that’s why I have a thousand years of memories tangled in my heart,
yet the naivete of a child.