a man who knew my father befriended me
causing me to question the nature of my reality,
my history, its validity,
my possibly-false memories
— all, viewed through the lens
of the person
who had vested interest in
indoctrinating me,
who preferred my naïveté,
under the guise of protectivity,

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see,

parents write stories on the folds of a child’s cerebrum,
their pens go unchallenged
until they’re challenged /

their ink is like cord blood,
except it can re/generate — or damage

but it takes only one person
to crack open their sky,

then, as forced astronomers,

we spend our lives
begging our zealots
the non-answerable,

“why?”

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