I’m not allowed

August 30, 2013

In the back of my eyelids there is a lake from my past.
I am no longer allowed to swim in this lake. Someone
put up a sign reading You’re Not Allowed and it’s talking
to me. The murky yellow water has always accepted me
before, always scrubbed off my flaws with its soft hands,
laying me in wet sand underneath its sheets. Why does it
forsake me now, when I am at my faultiest? The question
drove me mad for some time and I’m certain I looked
quite loony to my neighbors. I laid in mud and killed those
tiny flies that come with mud, dressing my skin in miniature
carcasses. I closed my eyes and returned to the lake. Will
you accept me now? But the sign was still up and it seemed
to have grown larger, thicker, as if I intended to punch it
down. I wept for days and finally bathed in my own tub,
but the clear water wouldn’t clean off my mistakes and I
wept some more.


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