I’m trying to proselytize my loneliness
out into the world. I take the tools I do have—
the words—-the punctuation landing in my chest
like bouquets of bullet holes—the grammatical errors
splattering up against the wall—my primary sources,
my persuasive essays—and I carve an explanation
out of the table scraps. I tell them
the amount of things I haven’t done
nearly exceeds the amount of people I’ve been,
but they just don’t understand.
I don’t either, honestly. When I met her on the coldest summer day
I was too scared of the leeches to dip into the lake. I heard what happens
when they latch onto you—it’s just like what happens
when I latch onto someone else, when I find someone
I want to love—-love, love, and then they’re salting me away—I heard what happens
if you let them suck at you for too long, I heard what happens and I’m not about to take the risk,
don’t ask me again, just get out, just get out of here. I’m
not about to be brave for someone who hasn’t committed
to loving me.
I watch them flutter along the streets and I watch them hold each other close and I think
I might be a bad person. I’m too alien, you see;
I’m floating right outside the concept of normalcy,
too intangible to grip down and pull myself in, too translucent
to be understood. I am never witnessed
in good faith. I am never witnessed
with faith. I hate all of them, you know. There’s something wrong
with me, some grotesque monsterflaw written across my flesh
that is visible to every eye except mine. I want to walk through the veil
and step into the lake but it’ll just spit me back out. I want to step through the veil
and walk into society but I learned how to talk a little
bit too late and now I’m a factory reject. If it’s easy for you,
then go to hell. If it’s easy for you, then I hope you get swallowed up
in the hungry vortex of my loneliness, I hope you die. I don’t like the person
I am becoming in the absence of connection. I don’t like the person I am
at all.