by Stasha Powell
Even then,
I wrote delusions, nightmares
easier to slip into than face the truth.
I traced perfect curves on crooked lines,
lost in the rhythm, losing time,
punctuation a casualty
in the chaos of my mind.
I hid secret friends in the cracks of fantasy,
their whispers easier to hear
than the noise outside.
Phone calls disguised as poppies drifting from my lips,
but no disguise could mask the Wonderland in my eyes.
The cats and I agreed—
we didn’t need their scrutiny.
I convinced myself I was living
in a Swinburne haze,
art for art’s sake,
while the dragon I once chased
started chasing me.
I rode alone,
cared nothing for the fare,
and had long conversations with death
that never ended in surrender.
I don’t know why I’m still here,
when so many better are not.
I don’t know how to apologize
for the wrongs that sit with me,
memories perched on the cliff’s edge,
waiting for the fog to lift.
The only thing I know
is to keep moving,
one step after the other,
chugging along,
through the haze,
through the shadows,
until the ride stops.
Category: Featured, Poetry, SNHU Student