Every Last Drop

The One They'll Blame

It comes to my mind in in-between times like weeds that take root in sidewalk cracks.
Monstrous, the vines reach for and find
my ankles, wrap around twice, pull, and smack—
I hit the concrete face first.
The green tendrils are quick to cover me where I lay,
and my brain is cursed 
with all I hate.

The thoughts overwhelm:
They're wrong, but I can't change what they whisper— what they say
behind my back— and their minds are made.
They're wrong, but they will never believe me.
They will always sneer at my name.
I'm forever the one they'll blame.

The realization comes later,
condensed after much boiling down:
They're wrong.
They turned on me but I—
I've been the same all along.

The vines retreat back to their place.
I stand up, hands in pockets, 
and walk out into empty space.