stable breach
Life reads like cheap fiction —
an endless chapter of aches.
It never liked me.
The streets, the faces,
luck folding like thin paper,
my thoughts looping rot —
and yes, me too.
Once, I carried a child’s stubborn hope,
bright as a small flare.
Look back: no neat memories,
only scattered ghosts of might-have-beens.
A million me fork away,
walking tiny roads,
living tiny lives
across dull, identical days.
Promised to pain, married to it.
Suffering arrived as inheritance.
Tears became receipts —
I keep them, brittle archive of existence.
I grew; hurt learned my shape.
Shoulders stoop under weight they cannot hold,
hands tremble, sight soft at the edges.
Everything presses heavier now.
Maybe I’ll walk a road
for the last time
and never reach its end —
as if neither I nor life
were meant for anything grand.
Still — I want to be a child again.
Second. Third. Fifth chances.
Cheap miracles, please.
Wait — what was I saying?
Oh. Coffee.
Bitter tastes honest. Bitter is best.
true barn