There is a story
that must have been
conceived on an acid trip.

My eyes are larger,
nails sharper,
I cackle in this tale.
Villagers loathe me,
their anger rapt and hale,
fiery stakes at the ready.

I have learned to
rely on those who matter.
Whose pages from which
your ink might as well
be water.

Bless your heart
or what you have
instead of it.

I bless you but not much.
Just enough fun to leave us alone.

Whatever hurt embedded
itself, you became a storm
trying to dislodge it.
I am not generous enough
to wish it away.
I just hope you are on the
duller side of it.

And life put us
on the other side of yours,
where two sides
never meets.

04/08/2021

Posted on 04/08/2021
Copyright © 2025 Johanna May