Everyday tragedies of ordinary people

by Charlotte E. Wilde

You’re different and it doesn’t go unnoticed. The billowing excess that colors outside your lines is visible and I begin to think that maybe eyes really are the windows to the soul, after all.

Somewhere in the middle of my musing it occurs to me that I know you. You sat in the volumes of my father’s shelves– Oedipus, Neitzsche, Hamlet– everything that’s wrong with everybody’s inner dialogue that they don’t care to admit but they’re thinking it anyway in the middle of the night.

We’ve met before; I’ll often forget a name but never a face. You’re that slippery feeling that something’s not right lurking in the shadows of an ill-advised ally-way shortcut. You’re the slanting memories following me into every 1AM, a bloodhound hot on the trail of a midnight mistake. You’re the usual suspects, the hope-we-get-caughts, religious guilt, adolescent desire, and midnight snacks. You’re those train-wreck thoughts [can’t look away], off somehow, but all rolled up in skin that goes down smoother than a double-dipped spoonful of dulce de regret (quick, nobody’s looking).

I know you too because I’ve felt you. For those of us with seething, by-water brains, curiosity has always been a defacto drug. And I wonder if perhaps noncompliance is catching, like cigarettes, or sticky, like jealousy, my own sugar-laced fly-paper trap. Or maybe, after all, the rules were only made to floodlight the ones who don’t quite fit.

I see you and I don’t look away because we’re both sinking. Siamese sinners, living the everyday tragedy of [extra]ordinary people– [ab]normality.

Here we are, and we know each other’s faces
because we’re lepers, all of us, witches at the steak.

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