"Can I believe in the me before I knew you beautifully?"

What can a whole page relate that a single paragraph cannot say?
The paint on the wall is white and the top of my left foot is burned,
a hot drop of oil gone rogue,
a new scar to mark
the passage of
time.

This is how I have been for the last two years, I
didn't need the clown behind the podium
to tell me to keep away from strangers and
stay inside.

It's always been this way,
just this room and these same ghosts,
hope and shame,
long walks and thoughts alone.

Today the sun shone down and
I raised my face to see if God
was
listening.