By Rudy Rigg
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A tempered callousness is all that the room required,
before I bowed and finally wriggled in my seat.
Could it be that we created an alternate reality without realising
or is that a rose-coloured view through the eyes of a child?
Your eyes say "you missed the punch line of the joke",
but the sigh that follows feels out of place
and I can't quite pick which is the imposter.
I smile, glaze over my eyes and act oblivious;
let you pull me off of the pedestal that I built for myself.
I count the two missed calls on my fingers,
my voice shrill with inflated drama
whining to my sister as we whiz down the highway.
"This can't be me, can it?"
The ghosts are always whispering that I am too much.
"It's not", she replies.
She did not allow for doubt to rage its way in.
I take a moment and try to believe her.