Sometimes,
even when the story is my own,
I don’t know where it began.
Perhaps with a fly’s
incessant buzz around my head
or back to that time
you told me I didn’t matter anymore.
It could have started strong,
and eventually petered out
like an inexperienced runner.
Or the inverse could be true —
the beginning was a weak thing,
the neck of a newborn,
that evolved into a Led Zeppelin
guitar lick.
I often sit and wonder
where and why it ever started at all.
How my perfect visage
eventually cramped
and broke into all these shards —
a broom isn’t determined enough
to sweep them up completely.
People will talk.
They will say,
“She always was small.
She always looked tepid.”
I will lick my fingers,
and ask for a third helping.
Life.
Keep dishing it out,
and like the court’s fool,
I keep taking it.
