I’m Out of Cheeks to Turn

Your cackle still stings though I did not flinch at the time,
or the other times.

I excused you,
did not realize I had been groveling instead of
upright to face you.
Bruised knees ache to straighten as I rise from the floor,
but not to stand up to you.

The taste of the dirt you kicked in my face
now means something:
the grit in my teeth
I would spit at you
(like words I am too smart to say)
is really fertile soil.
Your unmeant gift 
will flourish my gardens.

I will effortlessly push away from you like in an oar-less boat,
making no ripple, silent in my descent.

You will not even notice I am gone
until I am even too far away 
to yell to from the shore.

 

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About jake.forrest

Poet. Songwriter. Etc. View all posts by jake.forrest

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