theaters and presidential assassinations

spring from your mouth
comforting words of derision
while i pick at my toes with an old penknife.
they're sweet but salty and they go down easy
like an accusation that i know is true
or one that i have pinned on myself.
careless is what i am,
while you toil away at self-discovery.
just turn the mirror at a different angle
you'll see something growing there
and it's not just hair,
glistening as you like it.
i think hair is part of the bigger picture, though,
something you have noticed -
not in the literal sense, i mean,
but there is something about that glimmer
of hope
screen of smoke
(please don't choke?)
that can either show the world that you are someone who cares
or who wants it to think that you care.
or, both.
so
out with the braids and in with the scissors
and criticisms and brash realizations
and poetry that makes me blush a little.
but nod a lot.
you wouldn't have cried when lincoln was shot
but it wouldn't have mattered in the least
(whether you did or not, i mean)
because your eyes
your eyes
there is something in your eye.
a fly?
or a tear,
or a single raindrop that you saved from that one
day.
you're the strangest kind of pack-rat.
i mean,
who but you looks bad on bad memories
for the sake of good ones?
maybe i am the only one that mourns the braids,
but that's only because i love to see you
grow.