​consignment identities

I tore the frames from off your face.

You still weren’t you.

I tore the lining out of the jacket that

someone else had given you–

you still weren’t you / you still weren’t

you: were lost somewhere 

under “someone now” trinkets

meant to make you into something,

given you by someone else.

And I guess what you have

isn’t really yours, which means,

so sadly, I never knew you

(even after I slapped off your stupid costume).

I always think I know liars from

soothe-sayers. But 

I don’t know anything but broken promises.

Head-achey, tumble-dried, and under-whelmed

one inevitably begins to explore other options


an escape from spontaneous combustion.

But what if there are no more options?

Head-achey and tumble-dried

at least what I own is really mine:

It actually belongs to me. 

I’m not a

consignment conglomerate of identities.

Haphazard, unintended, and crumbled into cruelty.

Why does a person

sometimes turn cruel

when confronted with an obvious truth?

As if. it were. not obvious.

People just don’t discuss the damage others inflict

upon each other: out of politeness. 

It’s a heavy rock to carry over

way too many rivers.

So, I’m the one without any clothes.

And it’s damn near a fashion show

at the dentist;

a goddamn costume-ball while you grow–


Once you’ve grown, 

the costume changes

(from clothing to words)

(from brands to faces).

And even though you already knew

that it was fucked


things become a million times more fucked up

once you ‘can’ decide to ‘walk’ out the ‘door’–

whatever the Hell that may mean.

At least before, the costumes had words

and colors, and flashy,


scrawled across in flashy logos.

Now it just emulates disgusting necessities.


“we’re adults,”

can’t you see?

This is not a game to me.

This is my life.

I will live and then die.

Cannot hang around

this make-believe lie.

I don’t even know

what the fuck is going on.

We make each other smile/then

make each other cry.

over nothing over nothing over nothing

again; while meanwhile,

Head-achey and tumble- dried,

I’m dizzy.

But I just have to walk around this way.


Maybe for the rest of my life.

But fuck it: it’s better

than lying down.



copyright: C. Ward 2017

crickle-bot publishing


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