Naming It

Little boys
In fancy shoes and cheap clothes
Write mournful songs no one wants to listen to.

They know all the words
To 80’s underground
Later gone mainstream.
Just ask them, they’ll tell you.

They get erections
From being clever,
From being
Unique
And they remain inside, cold lonely hands wrapped
Around their one prized possession.

They are surprised the relief is short-lived.

The rest of us cannot see them behind the mirrors
They use for windows
And so, they remain, anonymous.
They don’t really want to see
Outside.

With carefully drawn soulful eyes
Wet with amniotic fluid
They dream deeply of shallow things, and false agreements.

They will tell you the meaning
Of the word
Eviscerate
Because, again, they know just about everything.

Except themselves.
And that we are talking about them.

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Molly Prostka spends her days in corporate America and her nights dreaming of blue water. She finds herself on the search for authenticity, connection and freedom from imagined prisons. It is likely not surprising to many of us that she often finds glimpses of these light things in the dark.

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