The Morning After

My room is so dirty you can’t see the floor,
and I don’t really care about you anymore.
I have a small angel who sits on the sill,
with a Christmas tree pointed like a gun and an ill
little smile on its round fleshy face–
I think I need to get out of this place.
I’m grasping at straws with no hope for reprieve.
It’s cold and alone here and I needed to leave
Six weeks ago or maybe a year–
It’s hard to tell with the way time passes here.
My guitar is named Marilyn after a song
that wasn’t written for me, but I strung it along,
like all that I do, like yawning in the doorway,
like swearing to wait and then moving on anyway.
She looks at me out of her round gaping eye
and dares me to run like I swore I would fly
to some faraway town or some ottoman city
where at night all the streetlamps glow misty and pretty.
But the angel on my window with its insincere eyes
knows better of my vain, fruitless tries–
and with its Christmas tree pointed like a prison guard’s stare,
smiles up at me knowing I’ll never go anywhere.

                                                -Kaitlyn Medina                       [2/22/09]

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