21 (Man in Women’s clothes)

The demons ain’t gone. Sometimes I’d rather others speak for me. Reclining, trying to relax, fuzzy dots bloomed across the ceiling. Chills slid down my spine and into my legs. I reconnect with the kid staring at the stars in a Wendy’s parking lot — then the cigarette burned my finger.

I think he’s just like me. Which means I’ll have trouble changing. I kept silver-lining the words every time. Why trade context for truth? I couldn’t grasp the weight without destroying the pain. Looking inward, I felt it: my entire body was a divine sketch. Past due. Then he spaced out.

The fun was even funner, the words sharper, because I finally understood that what I knew, I didn’t. Now it’s all reputation. I ponder further and realize I still don’t understand. Why does it bother me that he said exactly what I wanted him to say? I cannot predict this.

He was a man in women’s clothes.

I keep it flowing as a reference to someone I love. Origami statues waiting for the rain. I’m begging myself to stop caring. Today I heard another language spoken and I wasn’t lost. His voice healed something — his words sounded like mine if I’d known what to say. Do you ever think your interpretation is just as wrong as mine? Who’s to say?

Another terrible actor. He reminds me of the person I saw in that film — remembered in hazy parts, but mainly for the emotional wreckage. I get why people cling to the past, whether in nostalgic memory or physical mementos. I think I’m going to cry, but I’m so numb inside it feels like I’m laughing at my older self.

Dark night. Street lights. I have commanded many wars in my catalog of battles — some victorious, others broken and bloody. Still, I will never stop fighting. I know the armor of God is enough for me.