RedChickPoet
I remember riding in the backseat of the car. My grandfather in front, driving. His elbow skin was so wrinkly and was almost detached from the bone. I pulled it lightly and was surprised to find it soft. He laughed and said, "what cha doin, dearie?" And I told him. "Your elbow is soft and wobbly, like a chicken waddle. But soft, like an earlobe. I was just noticing." And he just chuckled again and shook his head.
Nothing will live in my belly. No growing, no life. I'm old and barren now. And maybe that's for the best. There's little worth passing on. Little of any substance. Much pain. Not much joy.
He came to the door. He looked hot, but still cool, if you know what I mean. He had no bag. What was he selling? And was I buying? I needed a lot of things, but not material things. Which is why, since he had no bag, I decided to let him in.
She claims she loves me. She lies. Nothing she's done shows me love. Claims. A nice word for lies. Takes the sting out of it. Yes. It hurts. Hurts more than I can ever predict each time I speak with her. No materr how much I prepare she always surprises me. I wish I could surprise her. With some pain. But then she's have to chars to feel pain.mto be effected by anything I day or do. If I were a psycho I'd make her care. My hurt and anger would be out of control and I'd make her pay. Butmim a good girl. A nice girl. A never hurt you girl. I figure out. I please. I justify. I support. But I side I'm filled with rage. My life was stolen many times. My father, the rapists, my mother, my illnesses. Even myslef. I stole and robbed and starved myslef I deserved it. It was something that I claimed wasmfact. Claims. Are they still lies when I have them?