Regret

I found a book and it added a bar to the end of my year-long commitment.

The magazine on the table shut the door of the house of hopes and dreams where I used to live.

I have begun to grow trees from the bust of Pallas
right above my chamber door
In the house of never running away.

Of never getting away;
of never wanting to.

I know a Barbie who is trapped in a plastic bin in a basement.

I know one who is stronger and more flexible
With a tree growing from her heart
to puncture the lid.

And her tattoos are made of roots.

I know a mystery whose only prison is paper.
The trees pose for her and the road rises to meet her
as do her friends

My skin and tangled hair stand in front and behind;

Where am I to go?

Out-of-the-box thinking never left school.

I listen to your regrets and resent the world.
It is tiresome to hear about commitments and cars
And the unusual strength of those with no regrets.