Shaking hands

I’m not very good at shaking hands

I just kind of put my hand out there

and well

try to match the shake of the other.

I guess I sort of know what that

says about my character, but

I’m cool with that, you know.

Sure I told him

without even saying a word — the courtesy

hug thereafter well, that’s a whole other story.

Conversations with myself.

I try to hang loose

but always end up

twisted, like a

damp dish towel.

Stained and tattered.

Are we really back here again?

Rinse and repeat.

Haven’t you learned anything yet?

Rinse and repeat.

I bet you like it this way, don’t you?

It’s quieter here…shh!

With voices in your head?  You’re too easy.

It’s alright if you sweat, just

don’t let them see you turn.

Are we really back here again?

Metaphorically speaking,

we never actually left.

Places just become new places.

People get replaced by other people.

Lies become fiction.

Truth becomes fantasy.

Like a damp dish towel,

twisting facts

until

they hang loose.

Life.

Life.

A series of sparks,

on a windy,

windy,

day.