Holes in the Walls

I'm not immune. Nor have I had this disease before. The one where I feel myself forgetting, but the amnesia fluctuates between utter numbness and gun point urgency.

I'm not alive. The world curling up in my fist. An unproven lottery ticket.

I'm not dead. Sea of years gone suddenly still. Russian Roulette with every chamber full.

If I had a voodoo doll I know just how it would look. Jaggedly stitched lips sewn forever into a gentle frown. No toes. No fingers. Just feet and hands that possess no grip. There'd be no needles in the pale fabric that serves as her flesh. Just tiny holes all over her little body that no one had bothered to close after they'd pulled out the one they'd put in.

I look for right. That moral precept so elusive. But I don't find it.

I bait the truth with the prospect of changes in myself. But why should it care. If it, in fact, it does exist.

Why would the truth ever come to us when it knows we're driven to chase it.

Seeing it not for what it is, but only how it reflects what in ourselves we wish were different.

I was born able to make holes in these walls. But I must learn how to repair them.