Inevitable Fuck-ups
Last night
I twisted in my bed
turned over
and focused myself at the suspended darkness
night isn't for sleeping,
it is for ruing and hurting and apportioning blame,
mostly at yourself
children can sleep
their slates clean
their futures longer and pasts shorter
their scars growing shapes in farther times and possibilities,
invisible
life yet to chisel an impression
but adults —
they live in a world with sharp edges
where mistakes often cut deep
and stumbles
leave wounds
that keep from healing,
and struggles of a day
can chip a million things away.
So they have to stitch every fissure
caress each gash
seam every crack
in their beings
in the night,
so they don’t collapse into a million pieces
before everybody else
they toil hard to forgive themselves
in an unforgiving world
for all the inevitable fuck-ups.