losing touch – The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright

Changing

I hate the city in sunny days, my make-up looks too bright and face – too wretched.

Silver Cadillacs rolling down the crowded streets, blaring, ‘cause every madness has a method.

Men seeing right through the vanilla scent in my hair, women looking me up and down –

Do they really think I chose this life out of boredom and became this decadent clown?

Every other car on the street sends me silent air kisses.

I don’t know whether they think:

“It’s the normalcy she misses.”

But I walk past the cars. Across the dust clouds. They’re settling on my contact lenses.

I’m swinging through the joys of this wicked ride and all it’s expenses.

-JW

Inscrutable gazes thrown at me from the empty corners.

This town has lost all shame, it’s gauging and devouring the mourners.

I sense a pair of evil peepers landing on my stripped emotions –

And the looks on their faces bite, but their sentences chew me up, these fake devotions…

A while back I would’ve sworn on my dignity to never let them get to you

But you left without saying goodbye, with her by your side, and I’m out of honor to prove.

No country far enough, my trail of betrayal will forever loiter around.

However, I have to flee the scene of the crime, time is an impatient hound.

Way back I heard someone mentioning the neon sins at a city behind the desert,

Three seas apart from this town, just far enough for me to run in black army boots and a nightshirt.

That’s where I’m going, no unnecessary looks over the shoulder, no farewells left for friends –

And why would I warn them? They’re the reason I have to fend,

No time left to make amends.

-JW

Here’s a bitter pill to swallow: they don’t need me if I don’t show them sympathy first.

They’re doing great. Everything’s lovely. The moment it’s not, they drink up my empathies with a godless thirst.

Too bad I’ve been too blinded by our history, reflecting into the unknown. I missed the warning signs.

I should’ve never taken up another beggar after one already tore my core into a painting of alarming sights.

But I’m not motivated by the anger. I’m writing this because no one’s here on these dawning nights.

It all passes once the sun starts creeping up the horizon, yet the bitterness is not erased by these morning lights.

I’m mourning our fights.

The thought of never seeing them again fills me with ease so maybe I should keep my heart locked away?

In the cupboard, next to a broken glass and shivering illusions of safety, shining brighter than the signs of Broadway…

Maybe I should built a festival out of this little hideaway,

Just for myself.

But I’d rather do it like Hemingway.

Here’s a bitter pill to swallow: they would need me more if they could add me on their resume.

-JW