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The only thing we can any of us be sure of is that nothing is safe, and no one is what they seem. Not even ourselves.

By Amy R. Blakeley



Sure is wet out here. Cold, too.
I’m drenched. Gonna catch
My death of cold…
If I don’t bleed to death first.

You know, they said it’s been
Too long since anyone had last
heard from me,
Seen me,
People wondered where I’d been,
Wondered if I’d finally
Gone into the deep end of
The pool and never come up
For air.

Could be. Maybe.
You act like the deep end
Is a bad place…
Is it?

I’ve been around, I’ve traveled
Here and there, to and fro,
Been off to visit, been on the road,
Laughin’ and scratchin’,
Shuckin’ and jivin’,
Gone walkabout, just been
Too damn busy and too damn
Stressed
To have energy to bother
Anyone with the sounds of
Wind as it rushes, whistling
Through the broken windows
in my derelict mind.

Of course, then again, maybe not.
Could be I was just tired
Of being everyone’s
Emotional punching bag.

Could be. Maybe.
I hear people say
I shouldn’t make myself
A stranger…

But I am. Always have been.
Outside looking in. Face pressed
against the cold grimey surface
of the cracked windows that
line the walls of the human zoo.

My windows got busted out,
Shattered, kicked in,
Exploded into razor-edged
Shards that cut my mind and soul,
By a tornado of conflicting passions
That blew itself into a massive
Storm of screaming darkness.

Hey, where you going?

I’m telling you where I’ve been…
Don’t you want to hear anymore?

I’d chase you to tell you more,
But I don’t want to cut my feet
on all this broken glass.

Well, okay, BYE NOW!, Guess I’ll
Just call you on the phone.
There’s so much to tell and
So much many more places
I can still be cut.