by Clint Kuboyama — New York, NY

The stench,
From what you’ve left,
Is crawling.

Closing the distance,
Climbing those ties,
Its familiar ache is calling.

Now that peace,
You thought was yours,
Was never silence true.

For in your lies,
In that peace,
Those memories screamed of you.

And now you whisper,
Fragrant requests,
Hoping to repel your fate.

Trying for more distance,
More time,
More truth to fabricate.

And the silence you seek,
May melt upon you again,
Dragging your steps deeper through.

But what you are is what you have been,
And silence will always whisper true.

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Editors’ note: Not everything in the world is totally nice. It’s good every once in a while to contract the good with the bad. We thought this piece was an intriguing exploration of someone who was not so nice.
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