Rebel

Sometimes, I catch glimpses of the future. It’s never very bright. Well, that’s alright Because on cold winter nights Any warmth is welcome to greedy fingertips. It comes from the fire-tender. She calls me to the feeble light, Calls me darling, Lets me warm my cold, cold hands above the weak licks of warmth And so, I am content. But sometimes, she’s cruel And now her embers Leave sad burns on my arms And in her domineering rage, She crushes the tiny orb of warmth and home And it hurts. I am content. I wear her clothes. Her wine flows in me; I reek of her. I own only what she gives. A bottle of bleach, a skinning knife Will not cleanse me of her grime. I am content. The moon, a lonely curator, Shone his flashlight over empty windows Shied away from dark doorways For guards fear what they guard But thieves and bastards don’t Because we own nothing and therefore lose nothing. I crouched in an alley, naked and bruised and hollow and content. The bliss of independence, as it were. But it was not to be- It is not to be- Because she finds me every time Lowers her hood And reminds me, I am not alone I don’t have to be alone I will never be alone. No, I look too much like her, goddammit.