I stand listening,
trying to make sense of it.
Confused, I retreat,
circle around,
and try again.
The words come in waves,
floating off in different directions,
as I try to grab them
before they drift
out of reach.
Sometimes, rarely,
they float down
and land on my head and arms,
and then I understand,
it makes sense,
and we can move forward again,
at least until the wind blows
again and I’m surrounded
by swirling words
and half phrases,
and silence.
Shy
Being alone gives the sense
Of something delightfully stolen
Displayed for the taking, a guilty
Pleasure gobbled behind closed doors
A house full of time
Unencroached by people who need
To consume hands on the clock, who never need
Stop. The chirping conversation disrupts my sense
Of being, a personality stolen.
The flavor of that moment tastes so guilty.
I watch insects’ metamorphoses through doors
Of disdain, all they need is time
To grow wings, to flower, only time
Will tell if they grow beauty. I need
To be complex like a chrysalis, have a sense
Of transformation that doesn’t feel stolen
From a sitcom. As an audience I’m guilty
Of hiding behind the back row with a back door
Escape plan. I wouldn’t dare use the front door
To Enter into an unused time
When people were direct, when the need
For transparency overrode the itchy sense
Of vulnerability once stolen
Irreplaceable. I let the seeping guilt
Soak through conversations, guilt
My fingers that I’ve shut the door
On. I forbid anyone to give the time
Of day, even when I need
Someone with a better sense
Of reality, who doesn’t look at stolen
Pieces of the mind as if they were stolen
Artifacts of an unloved life, coated in a layer of guilt
Each relic tucked between doors
Reinforced by blame. This time
I can’t help but need
Text to gain clarity, a sense
Of the stolen life starved for social time,
Written in hieroglyphs on doors barricaded by guilt
I gulp, can’t fill the need to make sense.
Anya
