protuberance

—

the ankle is a protuberance of the leg as how i protrude you.
this city. its surface. these people. their words.

concurrently stuck in the past and somehow still mounted in the distance.
i tell myself, “i’m changed. i’m different now. i’ve matured.”
and yet, my foot stepping across the sign sucks me back.
“welcome back to Niagara” … like i never left at all.

the ankle is a protuberance of the leg as how i protrude you.
i want to shake you.

“can’t you see you’re hurting me?” “can’t you see the weight of your actions?”
and still, somehow, i can’t escape you.
you’re all that i’ve known. you’re home.

the ankle is a protuberance of the leg as how i protrude you.
i get up and make my bed.

i pick the socks up off the floor.
“today will be a new day. i’’ll be happier today.”
i declutter my room in the hopes it will declutter my mind.
but as quickly as it left, the black hole sinks in again. i crawl back into bed.

the ankle is a protuberance of the leg as how i protrude you.
i want to walk away, but the leg weighs me down.

i’m stuck again. why can’t i escape you?

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