i feel as though
i have been trying
to reach you
my entire life.

i tried to
hack through
your walls with
brute strength,
but only succeeded
in reinforcing
your defenses.

i tried to shine light
and warmth on you,
only to find you
recede further
into the darkness.

i tried planting flowers
along your borders,
only to find them
tore up and in disarray.

i tried to
give you wide, open space
only to
feel myself
retreat to a
smaller and
more protected
circle.

there is nothing
to do,
but attempt
to repair myself,

except the wounds
you inflict
are not acute,
but for the moment
of separation
and despair.

your wounds are chronic.
they must be controlled,
but cannot be cured.

i love you,
but in this,
you are wrong.

i love you,
but you should
lean into me,
not push me
away.

so proud
of the
forgetting,

that can only
be achieved
if i find myself
*remembering again.

a memory breaks through
to the realm
of the
| n o w |
ripping a connection
through space time
to present
a rather rude
parallel:

as a child
standing in the
smelly
echo ridden
gym
under lights with
a yellow cast.

i am in a line.
about to be chosen,
or more accurately,
not chosen
for the team.

and i realize
that my brain
has chosen this thought,
now,
of all possible thoughts,
as a cruel reminder
that i have felt
this pain before.
for my entire life.

what if
i accidentally saved
my 31 drafts
as public

and the world saw
what i wasn't ready
to reveal?

what the mere
t h o u g h t
of you
does to my body,

another man,
in the flesh
**cannot.