Unreliable
If I was a reliable narrator?
Gave up all my inheritance from the space party.
Maybe I would be a little less jolted.
Give myself a chance to jump across flimsy lily pads.
She held a frisbee in her hand.
Tossed it like pencils, like when I screamed in class, threw my desk in slow motion.
Yet still revolving around under the coldness.
Like an ice sculpture in my head.
She had honest, plentiful voices.
She had a blank space where her tool box used to be.
She tossed her inheritance like blobs of jelly.
I came to life in five ways, and they don’t believe me!
Maybe I need to take a break from the narration, sounds, and struggles.
Narration, mumble, mumble.
There’s something so honest about the voices.
They stand up like they have feet, and want to toss a frisbee.
My life is an inheritance of voices.
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