i wish that reality

was subjective

and no one got angry or

sad

and that we could all just be happy.

there were flowers in the sill

of the farmhouse windows,

and the storm shutters

were still open for the evening

they left out the lemonade pitcher

and glasses on the porch

and the horseshoes

were strewn about the yard.

but the storm shutters

were still open for the evening.

into the morning they would remain.

but eventually they must go back

to the hard work of

protecting a thin pane.

and they creak when they close

groans, shouts, of agony

in their existence

they pray to jesus that they will

never be used again

but the clouds are moving quickly.

their yellow is peeling and

the rust on their screws

pinch them as they turn,

misinformed hands have moved

them from their rest

and they wait poised until

the light can pass through again,

solemnly they weather the tears

of rain.

it was just peeking through

the lines of the shade

and painting that sepia tone

to our floor

that portrait framed, i had one choice

whose consequences were not my own.

i own them though

and keep them in my breast pocket

it's crowded there

everything that's spilled over

can't seem to find a better place

and i am left

a child.

Looking at dandelions

like they were roses

and hating that they sprout in my chest.

pock marked like cheeks

with memories

blotches of red rise

and soften, where i never could.