a box of complaints unlaced as i scattered all that i am across the floor:
books and photographs lie next to fragments
of what once was a human

taking a pen to the thoughts and holding beliefs like paper to the window
to see if the sun can illuminate the page and make the writing
legible again, i found there wasn’t any idea left
inside this shell because i was only made of worry

we dispose of ourselves like used napkins — crumpling them up and
being too coy to say thank you or to remind each other when
we’re in love; we don’t speak when we’re afraid
and we’re left to wonder what thoughts lie next to
the dust in other people’s minds;

we flash a polite smile and shake hands with
our neighbors, our brothers and even our enemies but
we don’t take notice to how our faces sweat behind
the masks or how a glass of milk isn’t
really worth a nickel;

wanting to be told, we let what we heard
what we wanted to know - especially about others
eat away at the apples we picked and sold to strangers as
the beginning of a pie.