“…and the wound was a place of shelter for you, wasn’t it?”
You sincerely ask. You speak the grief I’ve been anxious to admit.
I want to admit to you, here & now—that I am a wounded thing,
there's a certain tenderness in the sadness / I’m not apathetic,
I still feel, and therein lies the root of the problem.
I want to admit to you, softness does not come natural to me,
I must shepherd it; I don’t know whether it’s my inclination
or a trauma-response, but cruelty tends to draw first blood.
Do you still think of me the same?
I want to admit to you, I’m a carefully crafted attempt at a human being,
but I think part of you knows this. In between the lulls of the mundane,
you’ve peered into my void and saw a reflection.
I know this because I saw a reflection in yours.
Maybe there’s a certain gravity / a certain sickness,
when it comes to people like us.
