Like an addict, with immense effort,
I extract myself from family’s chaos.
I build a temple of calm and hope
its gravity will, at length, rescue me.
Or I escape my stifling home,
tuck and roll through broken glass
toward freedom. The city lights shine
for me like burnished youth.
Or, broken on the wheel of the world,
I retreat to easy familiarity.
There are rules and old fights
but they are worn down like old church steps.
Or I want all these things and more.
The only story without complication
is an obituary. I break and mend,
am distorted and still shine.