Talking to myself in a room full of people. Then ignoring the knocks on my door from others who are just bored. Friends in name and scheme only. Handshakes and high fives serve not to unite but to keep each other at arm's length distance.
Choose your weapon. I choose kindness.
I cry with joy and laugh with pain. The world responds to and respects only this face, not my others.
Choose your medicine. I choose lies.
She kindly offers me her cheek to kiss, but only because her lips, in mind, kiss another. My extra care for her siphoned from the well meant to nourish my own soul. I starve my heart to feed her ego.
Choose your drug. I choose love.
But, as history echoes—with whispers—in my ear: I don't always choose wisely.
So that’s on me.