a life worth living

A snowy owl, perched upon
a fence; my shoulders hunched,
a pretense.

I'm sitting in a church,
attempting to pray to a god
that I don't even believe in.

My ex boyfriend
hated that I wrote
in second-person
narrative. He
hated that I
attempted
to keep myself
busy. He liked
to cling off of
my socks, and he
stood taller than
me, as if more important.

And like the many others,
he left when he found that
underneath the thick skin
that makes up my exoskeleton
there is no silver lining, but
rather a void of broken adobe bricks
that my ancestors laid as the foundation
to their homes.

I can't tell you whether they were
like that when I found them, or if I've
smashed them because I'm tired of a small
town's silence.

So you see, there's
no other real answer,
nothing better to do
than sit here in
a pew, staring up at
stained glass window,
and asking a god, an angel,
whatever the hell has
possession of these golden
skies, and ask
for help.

People are rolling
out the red carpets
while I'm tripping over
my own feet and asking: "What
is there to do?" As if a planet
is not out there to write about,
explore, and I am not to diverge
past these present punishments
and make way for a beautiful
existence.