the mercy seat.

born wrapped in plastic

sometimes I wonder what all this is supposed to hold.

you hear a cheery tune on the canned music at your job, look outside and see parents outside divorce court screaming and throwing things at each other while the kid wanders off in tears.

you take a walk down the street and someone randomly calls you a faggot. 

you wake up with the sinking feeling that you don’t know exactly how you fucked up last night, but you did, and bad. 

It’s just that I wonder sometimes if any of this is worth saving, I guess.

what do you do? 

you get up, shave and go at it again, I guess. Try to make it better. Try to make somebody smile.

That’s a start.

I want to make someone peanut butter and banana sandwiches, and push them in a swing at Long’s Park, like we used to. 

It’s just that I wouldn’t know who to call. 

Maybe I’ll just do it myself?