You look not at me, but through me – in a way
as if to say you wish you threw me away
then a strong wind blew me away
into a day not observed on the calendar.

I’m the main character of your nightmares,
so you want me confined to sights where
only fossils remain of white bears.
Crying for bed time stories with ice tears,
light years from tossing around the ol’ pigskin
and spending hours fixing
the hooptee in the driveway
with the wheels missing.

It’s sickening how although you never listen,
you still categorize my autobiography as fiction.
Saying it contains only misleading descriptions
and pictures that hide my big chin.

I’ve been black-listed,
living amidst a mass grave
searching for love and a last name
in a drug-addled fast lane
that fails to make my past fade.

But today I look not through you, but at you
and see a destination to avoid, a crumbling statue.
I’ve placed you in a museum and time capsule.
History only repeats itself
if your library book is past due.

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