Writing

Sometimes I wonder about the person I seem to be.

Is she truly me or someone else entirely?

Is it real or just a mask?

And if she's just a mask, then who am I?

Am I surrounded by lights?

Or shadows?

The choir is singing,

Six of them

dressed up for high-schoolers.

My mother is on the floor

of the gym,

sitting,

watching.

But all I can see

are the two girls.

I will tell you what I remember from high school, and I will tell you how you can follow in my sinful and lowly footsteps, that your blood might be as holy as mine. 

She is going somewhere 
I can hear it 
in the way the house pauses 
when she gently glides through it, 
as if even the torn walls 
are trying to find her. 

I walk outside my door.

To hear the breeze today

See what it has to say.

"I can't go on no more

My friend has left the sea

No longer wild nor free

Another offering to the fall

We walk, side-by-side

Don’t these rides seem smaller now?

Or have we just grown in size?

What if this is the end?