I turn up at the wedding,
But they won’t let me in,
I must have been specified
I’m sure I’m on the guest list,
Please have one more look,
It’s my sister getting married
So I must be in the book.
Can’t you see that I’m a bridesmaid?
I’m getting kind of harried
And I’d hate to make a mess,
But if you don’t step aside,
I have a switchblade in this dress.
Eminently awkward in prosaic propensity, even explicit explanations end entwined in endless enigma.
I speak such phrases that resound in silver clarion within my eyes and mind, yet return to me merely distorted echoes of confusion and poor Chinese Whispers of misunderstood riddles.
I am a stranger in this world and speak no part of any language I encounter.
And I do not understand.
This is me, starting a conversation.
This is me, screaming in your face.
This is me, begging for help.
This is me, bleeding before you.