Rushing past me people ensnare each other like thorns to branches. Tangled in their webs of criticism. Attaching threads around the necks of the innocent who are only trying to pass through unnoticed. I am the critic and I have little faith in the innocent. I have scratched bones of the illusionary self dry and reapplied a smile as means for a lie. Yet, I rush, assuming I will forget to stop. Forget to take note and misplace the breathe in my throat.
Rushing into people, I ensnare by means of rude glances. Looks that cause frostbite and stares stinging like snowflakes to a frozen cheek. My prey, defenseless, manage to reflect my darts without setting a hair out of place. My body plunges further down into the binding roots of insecurity. Mirroring the accusatory thoughts, understanding that I am the one who has begun to grow cold. Hungover from judgement, I seek a cure.
The people rush past me and I no longer care. However, unattached I feel isolated and unknown. Fearing plausible hurt seems only to dig wells of internal grief deeper. Burning like an unattended candle, I am a dark wick brooding, and my company melts like wax all around me. In isolation I stand. In isolation, I will lay down?
The people rush past me and I try reaching a hand. Caught, two eyes stop to see me. They use their mouth to smile. I use mine to smile back. We both use our smiling mouths and shining eyes to fertilize the fields of frowning mouths all around us. Although they will not all bloom at once, and although some may never bloom at all, at least the cold ground will now know of new relief. Perhaps the fields will ensnare less once every plant considers its place. Once every bud feels the warmth in belonging. Once every root is caught in an embrace.
Perhaps then I will no longer rush, but rest, knowing I have found my bed.