Self-Aware
I wish I could write myself into understanding.
That these gray lead lines
etched on tree flesh like
an ugly tattoo
could inch their way up my hand,
my arm, my neck,
crawl in through my ear to occupy
this space…
I wish they would organize, clean,
throw out pieces unneeded, those that
clutter, suffocate others until they can only
croak out a toad’s song.
I wish they would hold up my own thoughts
like sharpie on flashcards,
there for me to study, make sense of.
I wish they could draw up
a nice little coffee shop,
so I can wait there until
I walk in.
So I can offer myself a seat
and talk over steaming cups.
I wish they could show me
the bridge between
my brain and my heart.
See if it’s smooth stone,
or if it’s wood that creaks as I tread.
Are there battle stations set up
on each side? Opponents
smirking as they defy each other?
I wish they could fix my eyes,
they only seem to look out.
Do you understand?
Me neither.
I never do.