I’ve never been very good at telling people how I feel.
In fact, I don’t even think I’ve ever really known.
I ask myself what I’m feeling all the time,
and whatever plan I had for fixing something broken
flies out of consciousness like a sudden concussion.
I believe I can’t know because
there’s something fundamentally wrong about me
that others can identify when I can’t,
since I have that inner seeing and identifying problem
I mentioned up there.
I don’t know how I’m still here, can’t tell where I came from
or where I’m going, and have had to have my hand held
so many times, it’s a wonder I ever got anything I wanted.
I’ve preferred to be guided into pleasure
the way a sober friend helps you open
your front door after a long night.
And it’s probably a good thing I don’t find it because I think if I did,
evil imp that I am, I’d probably leave it on the side of a road
somewhere, swaddled in a blanket.
The animals would circle that feeling and begin their nipping,
and eventually one would dare to do a little bit more than that,
and that would be the end of that.
I wouldn’t have to live with it anymore,
and in a few days, it would be like it never was.
The truth is I hate this anonymous part of myself
that hurts me all over and turns me raw inside and out so much
I’d do practically anything to get rid of it,
and I’m pretty sure any guilt and shame I’d feel for abandoning it
would be worth it, even if it ended up being torn to pieces
by a starving wild mother, the way mine tore and consumed
my childhood, ate me.
It’s why now I confuse absence for love. Which would be an awful thing,
if it weren’t for the fact, that, having had to grow up as one,
it’s now second nature that I give my friends and I a lot of much
needed space for not taking ourselves too seriously.