mothman
i am
Nothing.
my names are written
in stones that
do not matter to
anyone.
nevertheless,
i Am.
i stretch
into a form that
i never recognized;
some abstract
manifestation
of confusion,
mild terror.
i see my shadow
move
in the corner of
my eyes,
stolen.
the sides of
country roads
craddle me;
a soft but unforgiving
chill.
mountain mama's arms
wrapped around me
lazily,
gentle in her
do not goes.
a man
but not quite.
parts missing,
pieces to other puzzles
your brothers scrambled up
while you tried
to make something
new
out of unbelonging.
it would be
less painful, less
suffocating
to sleep under moss
than to be
in the sun
visibly
disgusting and confusing.
a voice,
one that i recognize
as my own -
yet not the
dissonance ringing
in my throat -
whispers between the
boughs of
half-dead oaks,
saplings,
and the flutter
of wings.
it echoes
through years of
forest,
mountainous rock,
always just
out of reach.
