bones, boots, and bowling pins.

when the skeletons are out of the bag they tend to die hard like the cat that got stuck in the closet with the baggage and next to the yoke i wear around my neck that i so eloquently named “bad habits”—or maybe i mixed that up; like the time when the grass was only half as full as the greener glass on the other side.

and he took time in his reply when he said, “Oh, this one. He’s going to re-write history.”
Then my eye-lids open in my palms with the light trickling through the windows in between my fingers: destiny isn’t so hard to think about when the boots aren’t so big.

Sometimes I feel like a bowling pin. If the ball doesn’t get you, the racking machine sure will. But don't let the simil-nalogy distract you. What really matters is: if you were a bowling pin, which way would you face?