The future is knocking!
but only strangers knock.
Or someone you met a few times at a bar
but that’s definitely not your best friend.

And if you open that door an inch
you’ll be flat on your ass.
Stick-figure body in a pile, crushed
by every escape route you drew
that turned into scribbles instead
because a scribble is a line with too much energy to stand still. And that’s you.

A mess. 

But a flat line is for when you’re dead.
Like the curls in your hair fell and let go of every secret you ever kept
and I’m not letting the future win with a shitty iron.

So I’m picking up every curl, every luscious, infinite eight and,
with my door wide open, charging.
Because as Buddy Wakefield says,
“…the future doesn't want you…that means it dies…”
bent out of shape, flat as a history timeline
And I’m writing this story book bitch, one scribble at a time.