the story they will tell of me

the story they will tell of me will be skewed in ways that won’t illustrate my flesh or heart or naked bleating to the world.

it’s a story that will be either excessively short or long, depending on how much of these words i am permitted to choose to leave behind.

my story might go ignored for millennia, as fashionista historians focus on the titillating and ribald, the sensational videos and texts from youtube and facebook and twitter accounts.

a few of the remaining literary custodians will frown upon the liberties i took with my words, letting the scraps plop about without any design or architecture in mind.

my story will take a number and get in line behind the real poets, politicians, prostitutes, porn stars, pimps and again all of the above, except with “wannabe” prepended to their professions of choice.

the common people who knew famous people, and famous people who have exceptional stories of being famous, and average people with secret powers, and powerful people with nasty secrets, and lovable people who were really nasty, and so on. i’ll be in line behind all of them with my story, waiting for it to be read by the custodians of human information.

the lack of interest in my story will remain consistent with the lack of interest others i encounter hold for me. somehow, between my heart and their faces, my boundless smile gets curtailed to a pinching mess of confused glances and scowling twitches. perhaps this is because i strive to reserve my heart for the least of these, and for those who would also serve the least of these.

the best of these in any organization soon find me an anathema, a poison, a sometime useful dog, but mostly another office supply to be used and disposed of. they first think that they need to show me flirtatiousness and tease me into believing that i’m integral, and then they stand back perplexed at the sight of my servant’s heart, and think its there for them, and so they switch to communicating with me merely as a useful thing. but, finally, they come to forget just what i’m providing for them that’s different, and they grow bolder and bolder with desire to simply use me.

for friendship there are others infinitely better, and far more interesting and prettier.
for love, there are too many more who are sexier and ripe with flattery.
for giving and receiving respect there are always two or three whose butts are like magnets for the lips of most of those not prone to requiring friendship or love.

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