subtext

I am a clutter of clichés,

a rabbit scenting the wind,

an unreliable narrator

to my predicated life.

I wait for the next syllable

to fall without expectation,

just fear for what I’ve become:

a simple category to fill

with a few sub-topics,

mundane and predictable.

Wondering what lies I have left

to tell, I stutter about the truth,

too uncomfortable to venture

a glance at the road’s wreckage.