Sometimes the disconnect between

the world

and me

(not the fingers typing the words, but the place

that they come from)

is so profound

the mariana trench

separating the oceans of myself

so deep

that I forget

that I am here

that the body breathing

is my body

and that these fingers

belong to me

 

Sometimes, I am a card player

holding my breath

maintaining neutrality of expression

unwilling to play my hand

until I am reminded that it is my turn

so when I find someone

who reaches across the table

and tugs the diamonds, the hearts, the clubs and spades

from my hands

to lay them face-up

bright pictures contrasting against the grain of the wood

I am frightened

and elated

because I have not studied them closely

only looking at my hand

out of the corner of my vision

afraid of the numbers' reflections in my eyes

and I will hold on to you

if you bypass the game

for sometimes, the rules are arbitrary

and I have forgotten

 

Sometimes, I am

an activist

and advocate for my impressions

and I grip my loudspeaker

in frenzied, sweaty hands

and I wear my emotions not so much

on a band around my arm

but tied around my forehead

holding back my hair

revealing the fierceness of my eyes

demanding a challenge

but this is still a form of hiding,

though all seems over-revealed

too much information

a denial of service attack

on other people

so that they cannot hear the things

I am not saying

so that my thoughts are drowned out by my words

So if someone speaks quietly

allows the steadiness of their voice

to carry underneath the shouting of the throng

and reach my ears (which will be searching)

then I will hold on to you

because it is not everyone

who can make me

listen to myself

and sometimes all I really need

is a moment of quiet

 

Sometimes I am not here

sometimes I have stumbled into a novel

into a show, a game, a painting

and been absorbed into that story

crooked eyes that cannot look away

and I have forgotten

where I am

forogotten how to mark

the days

weeks in a nest of pizza boxes

dirty dishes and rumpled blankets

nights passing unnoticed

sleeping through the sun

so if someone touches me

places my feet upon the floor

reminds me of my

obligations

when I have forgotten that I

am at all

then I will hold on to you

becuase I miss being

and sometimes what I need is

to remember that I am alive

 

Most of all, I am inconsistent

I give too much, then not at all

I hold my hand close to my heart

or scatter it across the table

knock the deck onto the floor

I scream into the loudspeaker

or I will not speak to you

sitting quiet in the crowded places

I drift away into a story

or I cannot escape what is real

sleepless nights with a calculator and a bank account

I am afraid that I will not be enough

that I will love everyone more than I can be loved

or that love will die in me

like flowers forgotten on the window-sill in an

unused room

When I explain, I have long pauses

to overcome the fear

nameless, and without origin

regardless of the likelihood of rejection

or the history between us

when I do not explain, I speak continuously

words filling the air

not nervous, or comfortable, just language

 

even this has a thousand mistakes

I have not given you the right impression

it's not an impression

that can be given all at once

I have to build myself

in layers for you

show you a little more every once in a while

or

maybe it is and I can tell you

all at once, everything

then re-inforce the picture

with touch-ups of paint every now and then

I don't know

so if someone asks the questions,

I will not lie to them

and I will tell the whole truth

with no ommissions

and I will hold on to you

because not many ask the questions

and they rarely notice when I have gone

or when I am shouting

or when I have forgotten that it is my turn

because sometimes you understand easily

and that's what

I'm hoping for