Walk a perfect circle around me,
Quietly observe my happily married peers,
some with kids, some not, but never alone.
I don't see the start of that world for me ever,
and I feel strangely fine.
Liberation opened doors for my gender,
to choose or not to choose,
but sometimes, perhaps only when I breathe,
my Catholic guilt suggests
I should crash into a twist of fate.
I wasn't supposed to end up like Mme. Bovary,
her concepts of life guided by books,
the trajectory of her existence based on the romance,
never living life, merely thrust into it,
like the sound of a kick drum.
I was supposed to have seen the world by now,
a blitzkrieg of light in the form of knowledge.
London, Paris, Tokyo, Madrid.
Trapped in a snow globe of dust and cactus,
Measured as a lengthy self-inflicted bender,
weeping in some dark abscess of neon.
What does heaven look like to an angel?
Is it the same as ours?
Is it guided by instinctively knowing?
And what is heaven to an angel anyways?
Do they need to drive towards that perfection, like the rest of us do,
or do they travel there in books, as the rest of us do?
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