Blue Smoke

2007-05-30 by kmls

There is pain here.
It hovers in the air above your head like the blue smoke from your cigarette.
It peeks around the corner of a dark doorway.
It eases up to you and breathes across the hairs on the back of your neck.

There is pain here
and it stands right behind you,
up close, pressed against your back
with its arms wrapped tight around you like an overprotective
parent.  Don’t go.
I mean the world is a very cruel place.
You’ll get hurt.
You’ll be broken.
There will be people out there who will see your pain and they will laugh.
They won’t laugh with you, they will laugh at you.
So stay here, close the door, and hide inside.
Don’t go.

You don’t want to be broken.

But isn’t that what we’re supposed to be . . . broken?
Isn’t that what we all are . . . broken?
Look around you.
There is pain here.
It’s not standing behind or hovering in the air above us or peeking around the doorway.
It’s inside.
It’s in pieces,
scattered like the shards of a mirror in the bathroom
of our hearts.

Bad luck, baby.
Seven years bad luck.

Written March 3, 1996



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