a shame game (we're not wrong, but it's not right either)

it goes like this: you've got baggage and so does everyone else

sometimes people hang theirs up in closets, behind closed doors --  prefer denial

some embellish them in gold dusting and perfume to mask the stench 

some wear theirs under their stares, so far away, these shadows that hallow out each glance  

but you know who comes to mind first 

you know, you know 

the ones whose foot soles smear on the ground they walk on 

heavy, bent souls in their hardened hearts 

demons and monsters and criminals and ghosts tugging them along 

skeletons that hold their hands 

stones in cheese cloth, hung around their necks 

they carry it in their arms, those poor souls 

burden themselves 

wrongdoings masked underneath, just skin deep 

or another quiet desperation in a thin veil of professionalism 

you, starlit flame, older than time and you know you're dead

but they keep wishing on you anyway, keep looking up at you 

like every unspoken plea

like every unanswered prayer 

all of your flaws, all of those imperfections 

penciled in like constellations  

from one to the next to the next 

burning magnifying glass; they won't ever say so