Guiseppe

Give Pinocchio enough

String -

And he’ll hang himself

Like a real man.

A real man

Your father forewarned you

Of that –

And his before that.

Tears are for girls

But fists that beat sunken skin

And sallow eyes,

Are for boys-

And marionettes that dance

To the beat of the trauma

They never could quite

Reconcile.

But you cry now.

For the theatre of it

Knowing

There is only you to blame

And you’ll point your finger like a gun

At the firing squad you assembled

You’ll flex a wooden mouth

And the words

Will ricochet every which

Direction

But your own.

Need to make yourself invincible. Fey. Achoo.

Victimhood.

In a sneeze.

A carved and chiselled heirloom

Of privilege

And pale

Insignificance.

Against a backdrop of a world

You rewrote.

To suit your dovetailed limbs.

And your pocket hole nose

That turned in

On itself.

For truth.

Long gone.

For a story

That sounded

Better.

At a communion.