Story

You seem to have lived a charmed life
The kind of life that starts with "Once upon a time..."
Where mothers and fathers were college sweethearts
and live happily ever after
I stand awkwardly at the tips of the starched, fair pages
a secondary character that might get killed off
before Chapter 5 and
unless I present some interesting piece of plot fodder,
I can forget about a sequel.

I've heard that if you introduce a gun in a scene
at some point, it must go off
I am huddled under the cliffhanger on page 15
cupping the bulletholes I've been passing off as acne scars
I'd rather be ugly than broken
at least the ugly duckling can shed her skin if she waits long enough
at least the laughter stops laughing at some point if she dies long enough
at least she finds that her feathers were destined to be white 
that the color in her skin rubs off if she scrubs enough
I barely make it to the end of each fight scene.

I am a trigger 
and the things that happened to me
grope my body with the intent to kill
or at least scare you off with a warning shot
that hurts you through your plot armor
The shell casings will tell everyone that I'm dangerous
and I'm worried that you will be clichéd into believing it too
and whether or not you leave me, allegory will lead me
through grinning Crystal Hollow,
over spitting Fire Bluff,
across boggy Siren Moor
where nothing really grows anymore
and I take this journey alone 
hoping that redemption hatches from its literary shell 
on the other side
I hope redemption has wings
or strong cyanide 
or the face of God

I still dream in hyperbole
Usually I'm swimming through the cosmos,
no,
the entire damn Universe, staring down at the bluish speck that is our star system
nestled between the lines of a journal page
The bullets become daisies
and you don't see me coming
but you choose me anyway
even if I shoot
even if I twist the plot
it's okay, because you're into wrinkles
Can appreciate pages that age gracefully
passed along under many previous thumbs

I forget how to hold a pen sometimes
But instinct tells me that I have done it before
so I keep on reaching out from down here
Potential hums against the turning point-- 
or is it the opening scene?--
and I can see a puddle of accidents up ahead
Want nothing more than to paint it.
To make it my metaphor.
But as I approach, I don't see anyone I recognize
in the reflection
Just sky.