The Voices


Most of the time I prefer my
red couch. Watching the sky turn from dark to
light. Silence from fingers through toes. Listen
to the voices in my head. Before
long, they will all be here anyways.
Washing their feet, when they say they’ll wash yours. 
Sipping glasses of soda
and reminiscing of the past, with painted finger
tips and plastic flashes. Away
we go, watching the cold leaves fall.
Some days, the dining room table
can only seat a party of 
On the seventh day we rest.
We eat. We fight. We love. That’s all.


Last time I had cold glass of 
water was on a Sunday, it
burned my tongue, teaching me this lesson
of how and why to love. Fireworks
get angry in her eyes, while dad
delicately cold-shoulders her
ugly words. Pink bows are only
deceiving so many times. The
bodies all poles apart, distinctly
similar to one another, and
to every other draining Sun-
day of the week. People have a
peculiar way of making us
raw, and paying heed at the same
time. My little red
couch tends to listen better. Nature has
a way of shifting what I can
become familiar with. Even
if all I wanted was a glass-
of really cold water to sip.

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