it was cold, bitterly so as the wind cut through my shirt

i slipped on my jacket to check the mail

normally i avoid the mirror, an aversion to seeing the puppy dog eyes staring back at me, a reminder of how long since those lips were kissed, the beard not covering enough of the face that haunts this home like the ghost of failure present

fuck off dickens, there is probably an orphan boy somewhere for you to glorify begging for change with an identical twin prince

leave me be

on my shirt i found one of her hairs, a relic of the past hidden in the lining of my hoodie

i forgot how much she loved wearing that

sometimes only that as a treat when i came home from work

dead protein pushed from follicles, meaningless leavings from another age

a blown to the chest, my heart limping like tiny tim on xmas morning

i’ve become david copperfield jr, not even the star of my own semi-autobiographical tale

yet another dickensian tale of woe, transported to dallas instead of london, undone by my own clever tongue, orphaned by parents that never wanted me, the pauper hoping to one day be king

her hair coiled on my shoulder, unsure if it was an angel or a snake, but the bite carried venom and advice i knew i could not take

hell, even old charles couldn’t write misery like this if he tried

4 thoughts on “dickensian

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