Sometimes it’s like that

My hair flaps in the wind

like a fist-full of grey ribbons,

as I stand on the ridge top

pouring curses

into the sky.

No one hears me,

which is lucky,

I guess,

unless

hearing is a good thing.

Unless knowing is a good thing.

All the happy families

curdle in my mouth.

Their photos curl

and singe at my touch.

A picket fence of sins

stretches

before me,

and I kiss each one

goodbye,

though I love them so.

Then I shiver out of my straight jacket

and run towards the event horizon of my life,

curious to see how it ends.