when it was raining in your head, you were small. you broke boards then, in the methodical manner taught to you by those you considered superior. you broke boards then, out of anger, out of sadness, and more than all things; out of truth.

when the word of your insanity got loose, they didn't want to believe. unlike cancer, this death spread too quickly, and at times, when the mouth was quiet, it was undetectable. lost in a fantasy world, the tears or lack thereof were unapparent. what seemed infinitely promising lead to dead ends, yet what strew further and further away from meaning lost any, and all, credibility.

so today, years later, you were questioning. the mourning which seemed appropriate was anything less than present, as were you. so how can you tell? how can you know?

can you know?

all that can be said for certain is that to the subject's knowledge, the mother never cried past that day of submittal, and the father moved elsewhere in his mind once i was, no longer, the prodigy;

as though i ever was.

'i cannot blame this on my father, he did the best he could for me.'

others will say that i twisted my head with the chemicals, or i was strongwilled, so much, in fact, that reason never resonated; that purpose never rang a bell, a fluke? will they say, "she was born before her time," or "her wisdom outweighed the years?"

i think we both know the answer, and i've never fooled myself for a second, for there is no need. today i identified a time which seems to be the perfect marking point for any kind of time travel, but i live, and have lived, before these times, of course. i almost thought to note some sort of doubt, but surely consciousness is responsible anyway, right?


but those times, then, oh surely, see me: a lost soul crying for help. i cried to god, to my mother, my father, any listening ear, and yet; there was none fitting for that which was barely living.

but blame, blame, can any of us blame? how can an unknowing being help a dying spirit, lost in its own deep, dark dwelling?

"you are a dragon," they said.

and i tell you this time and time again, as though some alternate retelling will assure the guilty shame which seems to overshadow each and every moment.

maybe next time it will make sense, i encourage.
surely next time, you'll capture it.
but how many
can capture
a dragon?