it was never in my nature before to ask questions. i suppose i didn't care enough. admitting you were evil is the first step. i imagine myself saying: please keep your pants on, this is important. when i docked the row boat i was unaware of the coming snowstorm. i would have tied a tighter knot, or perhaps, sat in the canal with my life jacket tied to 3 pounds of dynamite. i'm sure the fuses would get too wet. it would be my luck. sitting in a row home, docked, solidly, covered in snow.
when i open my mouth, inevitably someone is listening. it is never for me, so i try hard, because it was horrible. i used to catch at every corner acting like a velcro strip but really my hooks were metal. I'd tear at every piece of cloth left dangling, leaving more than a stain but a scar. it isn't something i'm proud of but if i think to denying it distasteful. it's under my skin, bite down on it, clench with your teeth. the juices have been wrung out.
the intuitive ones can smell it on me when i let the words slip. they've tried to read my poetry and make a case against me but didn't separate the "me" from the "I" and i say it's a trope. i sat red faced almost forgetting the dead skin that wasn't mine underneath my fingernails. can i be both and still not? loved and still? you don't have to answer that. strange of me to even ask.