A Jumble [of words]

Sometimes I pretend I'm alone. In a room filled with people, or even just one other, 

I console myself with thoughts that soon,

it'll be just me.

I was five years old when my mother turned 22. I remember her as sad and stressed and quiet -

three kids with a man who made love seem tough

I wonder if she ever pretended she was alone.

Flying solo is the feeling of weights off my shoulders,

the ultimate collapse of rulebooks with social standards that keep piling up throughout the years

with every, "Don't wear that," and, "PARTY FOUL!" aimed in my direction.

When I think of solitude, I remember Lincoln -

Honest Abe, The Liberator, The Rail-Splitter, The Great Emancipator. Lincoln was an artist of storytelling, but have you seen actual pictures of the guy?

"Mysterious Badass #1" is more fitting; "dignified" and "creative", I want to be like Abe.

You get a bad rap when your lips don't move, shaping words you've never cared about.

Fast forward through decades of talking but saying nothing to those who sing along with the expired split, crack, crunch of an autumn leaf 

without actually having felt it.

My palms sweat to the rhythm of forbidden thrills - empty hallways during class, the calm hostility of crowded coffee shops.

I've had words thrown in my face that ricocheted off of tiny corporate office walls: "Minimum wage does not permit mistakes," yes, I know now.

I can handle words, but sometimes they make me cherish the times when there are none. So,

sometimes I pretend I'm alone. In a room filled with people, or even just one other, 

I console myself with thoughts that soon,

it'll be just me.