I never sought to be
of this confessional breed,
I am being trained

to withstand the sorrow
of bruises on both
my wrists and nobody

ever asked me if it hurts,
laying cornered in a field
wondering how the hell

God prepared me for solemn
nights. And I don’t know
who I am praying to at night,

whether it be a deity in the sky
or myself, strewn across the
world. Sometimes I think

I should write a thousand
letters and ship my soul
into them all. And sometimes

I think I want to be a child again
because my grandmother was alive
and I had not yet died inside.

The problem is that I like
every place I see and hate
every person I meet.

So tonight for all the world
to see, I am embracing this
confessional breed.

For starters, I hate talking
about my scars. Because
the pain of the past

seems highly irrelevent, yet my body
reminds me of the feeling
with twelve marks on

the side of my left thigh.
Just one of those things
I wish I could hide.

And lately I’ve been crying
when I write because it puts
me back in that life I lived

before. And I know
I talk about it a lot,
but it’s kind of scary

to be that sick,
because I wanted to die
so much more than I wanted to live.

And my stomach hurts when
I miss him, and my brain jams
when I try to speak too much.

I write poems twice a week now
and given who I was, I think
twice a week is enough.

November 25, 2017

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