By Shea Krispinsky
White knuckling my way to faith
to believe what I do not believe, can never
believe. My hands cramp, my body exhausts,
and my mind. To blame:
society, capitalism, post-modernism, other.
Anything but the truth: myself. My shadow. Let me
introduce her, this black hole, this
most alone. She knows what she is. I know
what I am. “I don’t want to give in
to melodrama,” Bo said. Aren’t I
too old to still feel this way? But to pour
the cinders and ash to smother the flames
inside is not a better way to exist. Or is it?
We become aware of our self-
awareness. We eat our own tails
and call it delicious and we never
feel full. We are terrified that we get
one chance and it’s already gone. Trapped
in our house we watch the comedy
special, neither of us laughing.
You said, “Brilliant.” I said, “Banal,”
knowing these days, they’re both
the same. You said, “Sincere.” I said,
“Performative,” knowing these days
they’re both the same. All-time-low, inside.
Shae Krispinsky lives in Tampa, FL, where she fronts the band, Navin Avenue, whose sound she describes as Southern Gothic 70s-arena indie rock with a pop Americana twist. Her fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry have appeared in Connotation Press, Thought Catalog, The Dillydoun Review, Vending Machine Press, Sybil Journal and more. She is currently working on her band’s second album and a novel.
