Pastiche or Vignette

What do you feel?

He asked.

I told him I felt either nothing

Or everything.

I felt betrayed. Angry. Bitter.


But I didn’t tell him I felt fear.

God I fear.

I fear the coming of the days and years and hours

In which my life will dissolve like so much smoke

Evaporating, not ceasing but vanishing.

I read books with narratives like smoke


O my son Absalom!

He cried.

You who I loved

Could never understand

The crushing and unbearable freedom

Of making a decision

Right or wrong, I may never know.

I left, it’s true.

I faced one fear

And ended up fearing everything else.

Yes, I’m alone now.

For the life of me I can’t figure out

How to do this.


O my son Jesus!

He cried.

Who will cry for me?

The world cries for those it knows,

Those whose lives touch the other strings in the loom

Those who scratch out their existence on

Their rocks, their stones, their

Scraps of paper.

It will not cry for me.

I live in a world of men.

And women I suppose.

But they are endless and quiet and calm

The both of them.

I riot inside

And then am silent.

But it is a restless silence

In which I cannot be but that I am not

I am is

I will be was

Am I was already

Just knowing that the future is was?

One day, everything will be past.

History wraps around itself

Like smoke,

Like so much god damn smoke.

Not ceasing.






I am a pastiche,

And a vignette.

I hope to possess more

Than mere verbage

Before I vanish.

But I must be strong.

Bushes are silent and dead when spring comes.

Birds sing still when caged,

But I, my love,

I am not.

I am a living was.

But I must be stronger.

I used to be articulate.

I used to be.

I used to be.

-Kaitlyn Medina [4/12/2011]


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