if we’re talking criminals

Is there a reason some stopped being children

and then stopped understanding being young? Who pulled

the wool and elected to run? Why were the children of 

the gone, shepherded to grow up and 

start medicating? Began raising themselves:

googling mixers between mishaps and meditating. 

Some ringfenced themselves, whilst slapping clamps 

on younger wonder and pretending

to be surprised that a defeatist—some dismissive elitist—

affects their maiden drive. Some live through their kids,

enforce constraints to survive, make out that 

they’re entitled to a vicarious second life. Grass is greener 

when watered twice. Thrice. Infinite times.

Where there is love, there is vulnerability 

to lies, and I love how you visualise but 

your body hasn’t felt the pain in mine; I haven’t 

seen you recognise that hurt hearts 

can agonise without being a criminal of the crime. Consider:

something non-fictitious is the bigger picture. All lines in

this webbed scripture bear the discreet taunting

of a trigger. Each adherence makes us sicker. I wish that 

I was richer in irresponsibility, I wish I could just surrender to a later

stage of all of life’s learned lessons. I wish I could allow imparted wisdom 

to mend us. I’ve had a shattered soul before, so I know that

composure becomes precious; and I’m avoiding everywhere

that pressure lurks to threaten that impression.

© Mollie Mardel