The Gemini Complex
By Ryann Moos
I may be a master of accidental deception
who stumbles without consequence and screams without sound.
Or maybe a disguised vigilante
who works alongside the shadows that accompany me,
a notorious void, infamously shrouded in obscurity.
Or maybe even a muted monstrosity
lurking, stalking, preparing to pounce
and bearing my fangs to a faceless crowd, incapable of reaction.
But within myself, I recognize that my soul is far too large for my body to grasp onto.
My being is a fusion of the stars, the planets, the galaxy;
there is so much to know, too much to know.
Why can’t anybody see it?
To be stripped of the vibrancy your mother once praised is a perplexing endeavor,
because where does the pride run off to?
Can it still remain within the mother, within the child?
It is a horrific affair
to watch said pride take flight
and realize its feeble wings cannot bear to hold its own weight,
and they can only take it so far.
So, then, when it inevitably falls flat,
almost perfectly between the space that your mother’s feet and your own have created,
you cannot help but to look up, to finally see each other for the first time,
and wonder who truly created this master of accidental deception,
this disguised vigilante,
this muted monstrosity.