I’m not sad,
I tell everyone.
And it’s mostly true.
I’m whatever I’ve
always been, but
now my mask lies
broken at my feet
in sweet-smelling chunks
of fiction.
I’m too tired to fix it,
though everyone
can see now
how little I’ve kept.
Just some odds.
And some ends.
But who can smile
like before?
Before what, it
doesn’t matter.
Before him, or her, or them,
and all their
counterfeit futures;
before the carnage
of understanding that
most crimes are simply
endured. Before
the after.
No, I’m not sad,
I tell everyone.
I’m spare;
a collection of only
the most dangerous hopes,
waiting.
