March 16, 2012


I’m twenty-five.
Mushy brains and mushier guts.
I have to make jokes to keep talking.
Observation, situation,
I make fun of what I see you might laugh at if I make fun of it.
And sarcasm: my wingman.

I’m twelve again.
Shit for brains.  Guts scared shitless.
I can’t start myself talking.
You’re watching, listening,
laughing at me laughing at what you’ll laugh at.
With Sarcasm, my protector.

I regress in a matter of minutes.
Confident then.  I can’t now.
Because you’re smiling.
You’re looking at me.
You’re not looking at him
and he needs you to look at him…

I just want you.

I’m twelve again.
Deciding what’s wrong is wrong.
Choosing what’s right.
Right now I can’t choose you.
Because he doesn’t have you.
Because I was taught to help the helpless,
those who have less than me.
I can’t because he can’t.

I’m twenty-five.
My brain stops what my heart wants.
My gut tells me to listen.  My hands reach to take.
They all want you but I can’t choose you.
He’s my friend.  He needs you.
But maybe I need you.

Help the helpless,
those who have less.
Neither of us can have you.
Though without you,
no one has less than me.



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