I hate these crooked roads.
Leading to the same open doors,
we closed years ago.
No one belongs here.
Walking along these upside down stairs,
blistered feet begging,
for just one crack in the ceiling.
It is a restless routine,
this social excavation.
What is the hypothesis
fossilized in hypothetical achievements?
It feels as though
the distance we fall,
is always so much greater
than we ever remembered climbing.
Theoretically,
perhaps, it wasn't you who fell,
but they who pushed.
It is true.
The narrative into which
you speak this Truth
is not your own...
It could swallow you whole.
If you let it.
