Grief Written

My favorite conspiracy theory is that he’s sorry, That concealed behind all the paper thin walls, party lines and sweeping measures, Is an admission of guilt. But there is none Just shadows and mirrors. A coverup As I point to bullet holes that have long been spackled Files that have since been deleted  Plausible deniability — a tinfoil hat fever dream.

 This is not poetry But I’ve taped a string of words I found and cut from a magazine across the back of my phone it reads, “A full return of optimism.”  The tape is peeling but I don’t mind. I whisper the phrase to myself every time my finger runs against the lifted edge. My friend slept in my bed for weeks, And then my brother for a single night with his knee in my back But I couldn’t complain. Because he slept soundly and didn’t mind the way my cat nestled between his legs. When he mentioned it in the morning, I tentatively mention the way she must’ve felt his unsung sorrow — how she seems to follow where comfort calls. I’m so far from any place I’ve ever called home, I know that this is the time people reinvent themselves but honestly I must admit I like the woman I’ve grown into. I’ve been tempted by the pain, the torture of the past to dispel any part of me any one might claim. But the truth is, When I wake up it is only I and none of them. I am only me. I wonder about th...