The Outlet

I see outlets and red.

As my day begins between the bricks and mortar of daylight and clouds mixed with the vanishing vapor of stars.

I sit on a cold black metal chair alone in a room of new concrete.

Unstained with footsteps just yet.

Not dirt or mud or grime.

I just sit and stare at the outlet.

Like my foe. Like a menace. Like a fool.

The clock ticks in a static black and white picture I’ve painted with straight lines and sharp edges throughout.

I use Roman numerals to appear authentic.

My tongue sticks out backwards and bobs against my throat as a threat to cut off my singing and steal my voice.

I’m just fucking around here.

I’m just blue plastic fading and wasting away in a landfill.

But the outlet’s eyes stare back at me.

They beg me to gaze into them.

They beg me to speak.

They beg me to fall on my knees in repentance.

I won’t. But it hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

It hurts to have Him looking into your Soul on a Wednesday morning before 8AM.

It hurts to be sitting in public wearing a Scarlet Letter of F not A.

F for fake. F for Failure. F for fuck.

I’ll put the F in my purse along with my notebooks and cell phone and keys and spare change. I’ll carry it along with me today. I’ll bring it out for others to see only when they ask.

It is my F.

I say “Goodbye” to the outlet.

I think it winked at me.

I’m gonna go for a run.

But, probably not.

Just run away from the stare of electric currents disguised as Eyes.


About heathencomehome

question marks & ellipses
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