The weeks turn into elaborate countdowns of the seconds
I barely talk to anyone
An intensified workload
And handful of mother's little helpers
Easing my ultimate transition
Away from the basements and backyards of yesterday
A few final conversations occur
My head not gratifying some of them
With audible responses
At this point I can already project
The right kind of look
So they all know exactly what I mean
The imitator seems best at handling the downside of my exit
He whimpers like a wounded animal
Before drowning his sorrows away
And moving onto the first available halter top
I start to lose myself
In the inevitability of words
The inspirational ones only make sense
Because I'm so fucked up
Nevertheless it feels good to believe in something else for once
Something other than the soft flapping of a ripped image
As it slowly floats away in the wind
With the rest of the debris
- C.W.
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