the mask never fit me,
and even if it had,
it would have slipped off,
right when I produced my stickup note
and demanded you on a silver plate;
not just destiny, nothing to do with fate,
just the way my drama unfolds,
the way my life implodes;
just as you are starting to feel compassion,
I break it all up, after a fashion:
spending my time trying to rob you,
trying to steal you away,
trying to think of clever things to say.
February 13, 2009.
Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.