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.