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.