The glass of water on the
table is old; did I leave it there?
Was it mine? No
matter; I drink from it anyway.
I can’t help anyone, any of them,
you know, because the only
people who even brush the
edge of my heart all love
truth more than life,
and I can’t fit that in with
the world as I know it. I
don’t know a world where
self-preservation wasn’t
worth a lie, or two, or such a lifetime.
The water is gone. I assume
I’m the reason why.
“Glass Half Something” was printed in Crossroads, No. 8 of Inwood Indiana. Pick up the paperback from Prolific Press; the stories and poems published online are free to read here.
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