I flipped the glossy paper, the sun’s glare
Illuminating pictures of our forgotten half-truths.
I don’t remember them; my mind pulls nothing
As I try my best to recall them. Maybe they’re trash.
My brain threw away the photos of you,
But I remember they used to be sacred.
To forgetful minds and blackened hearts, what is sacred?
To look back is to half-see reality through glaring
Light. It’s unclear, unfocused—were you
The one shining? Maybe it’s me, and that’s the truth.
Maybe it was both of us. What is truth but trash,
When I look back to recall us and find nothing?
I’m lost now. I call out and only face nothingness.
It’s why people turn to god, to find something sacred
In the absence of meaning. But doctrine is trash,
And the void I forced myself to create is glaringly
Obvious to people who believe they know the truth
About me. Who believe they know the truth about you.
It was my fault that my meaning for life became you.
It was unfair, to place that significance where nothing
Lies beneath. A delusional mind can’t find the truth,
Yet I can’t help but wonder if my soul’s kept sacred,
Some place nested long behind your heartless glare.
I can’t accept it. I can’t accept that to you, I’m trash.
I wonder if anyone else saw the depths of your trash.
I insisted there was nothing wrong with you,
But I couldn’t see. My rose glasses shielded the glare.
They couldn’t stop it all, so I pretended to see nothing.
To a naive, lost mind, my feelings were never sacred,
For how could I be sure my brain spelled the truth?
I watched as your twisted, unsure lies became truth,
As you slowly turned me into a believer. You spewed trash
As a false god. But I have trouble telling what’s sacred,
Especially when the only light in my darkness was you.
If I dared look elsewhere I was surrounded by nothingness.
Vastness. Emptiness. I gravitated towards your glare.
The only thing left sacred is my personal truths,
Your blinding glare made me worthless trash,
And when I see pictures of you, all I feel is nothing.
The Tributary 