| I am why I’m not okay.
So goes my singsong internal
narrative. My fractured voice,
me, the real me, struggles: But
I am alive. I love. I,
more than anything, love
a summer night, a downhill,
a breeze from the west, a bicycle,
about 9:45; Sunday morning slow
folk hymns and black tea stewed,
steam in the chewable silence
while the syrup of my mind
dribbles, concentrated, down,
smoothing itself out; rain and poetry,
how they sober me. It’s all fear of
what’s beautiful in myself. I can’t think
of things to say to people, ideas go
just beyond my reach. But loyalty
kings all the things I can be. I
am not okay; but I am not why,
I am not responsible
for the separation of myself. |
