"It would be a statement of complete fatuity were I to claim I had approached the venture with no measure of trepidation." - Myself, moments after writing this poem.
I claim very little.
I claim the cold of the night as regards my own warmth.
I claim the twinge in my right ankle for no one else would, surely.
I claim what little daylight I see and that sees me.
I claim the stagnation and degradation of my soul which I allowed to prosper deep within myself in all those hurtful years I spent convincing myself that you would eventually be capable of loving me as I did you.
I am aware.
I am a vigil for myself.
I engage the world for my own ends.
I sing a song that carries no one.
I breathe only when my lungs will suffer no further delay.
I am the concept of revulsion that stirs the body instinctively, like unnecessary skin.
I am the cold entity who never felt an embrace, whose face slips out of view of the light of the flickering bulb.
I wrong myself furiously.
I rarely forgive.
I choke on the water. I burn in the deep tissues.
I feel the idea of desire, and I smell the smoke, the herbs, and the mud.
I prepare a table for myself in the presence of my infirmities, and I cannot help but look at my self between my fevers of antique wakefulness.
And I wish to God this had a happy ending.