"Do you really know?"
A poem, by Bernadette Tinio
So you think you’ve got me figured out when I haven’t even figured myself out yet. You swallow my words like clues when really they’re just words like nails for cereal – try swallowing that. But maybe my words are clues, but maybe they’re not. Who’s to tell – except me – because you can’t get inside my head. My actions are indirect; yeah, they’re just performance indicators, but not the actual brain itself, the words that line the folds of my mushy intellect or the thoughts that cloud my vision – like seeing across the world through the purple night sky.
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