I know that in a lot of ways
I’m a lot like my mother.
Partly because no one will let me forget,
But also because I see her expressions
In my reflection and feel just a little bit
Tired by life with every passing day,
Even knowing that if there was
Ever someone created to live,
It was me, because I absolutely love it.
Sometimes I don’t wear a bra,
And accept cigarettes from
Charming men with boyish grins,
Knowing intelligent isn’t the same as clever,
And edgy isn’t the same as mature,
But pretending with a bland smile,
Because what does it matter
In the grand scheme of things?
Sometimes I feel like chasing tornadoes,
And let destiny have its way with me,
Since death is certain and ever looming,
So we might as well enjoy the beauty
In life even when it’s terrifying.
(Or even especially when it’s terrifying)
Sometimes I look towards the heavens
And wonder if faith has ever served humanity,
Because there’s billions of people now
Who all believe in Something and Someone,
And those kinds of statistics must be real,
Maybe there are no lies in their stories,
But different versions of the same basic truth.
Sometimes I wonder if I have the same
Grasp on reality as everybody else,
Or if “normal” people see the world
In shades of gray and that’s why
They’re ultimately satisfied with
Their perfect houses and their routines.
My hands aren’t calloused from
Making dreamcatchers and
I don’t collect crystals and believe
I can harness their energy,
I don’t eat carrots as a medicine
That will cure my eyesight,
And I drink ginger tea but
I always put sugar in it.
But just a little bit less,
And I wonder if it’s
Just that grain of pretense
That makes me fit
Into society because
I don’t totally believe
I’m seeing the same
Things as everybody else,
But it’s all real to me,
So maybe my mother
Wasn’t all that crazy,
Maybe what she saw
Was another version
Of the same basic truth,
But with a lot more color
Than the rest of us can see.