I am rotten clover, too dark of a green in the field of colors happy as spring.
For all that I am, curled to some pathetic degree, offer very little to the scenes of people dotting the trail of my life. Their judgments dot the memories of my brain, like holes in cheese, acid through wood. Words fickle and dark, disguised as something pretty. Those with tinkering, light voices stand in the dark as much as the tree in winter.
I stand as a wraith, cutting the shadow too thin and shallow on the walls of educational institutions and even in those places of comfort. The walls grab onto me, but never hold; always forget rather than remember. But those stories are as fleeting as they can be, for what the ax forgets the trees buried in the walls also forget.
When the coin tin is pushed around, I am asked, “What do you have?”
“I have nothing.” I am nothing. But such is the double meaning of the phrase; I speak what is adjacent to my heart, for hope that it exists in the world in much the same way I do. I hope for all the withered pieces of myself to have a double meaning, parallel to the splitting of my image reflected back to me in the mirror. I am the wraith; fear for the day I step outside the shadow I live, but care not for the times I conform. But I am, am.
The wraith stands unmoving in the eyes of those that watch with minimal care; the control of another being is enough to suppress the existence of it. And I ask: is the wraith you or is it me?
The wraith cares little for the clover over in the field, green and lush. It is the rotten clover in the shade of drooping trees, thick with the tangle of branches where prisms of light are trapped in the dead of the hollow and diseased. This is where it grows, the wraith too sickly and burned from the sunlight to harbor such clear thoughts, drifting up and away through the bark and wilderness.
And it is me, floating far away from the world. I am asked “Who are you?”
“I am the rotten clover beneath the tree where the wraith stands.”