Clenching my teeth, I cringe while you read my old poems.
Ahhhhh! That's not me! I swear! I've changed! I'm not so immature!
There would be nothing more satisfying than crumbling that **** up and showing you how great I am.
But those poems are the legs I stand on. I can't cut them off, can I?
Those awful poems! Sporn from longing and lust - I called it "love" - my cranky post-grad years, living with my parents, and working minimum wage jobs... all I hide is there, for you to see; most people don't look.
I want to erase it all! I sometimes hope my old poems are accidentally thrown away. Then I wouldn't be at fault for all those lost thoughts.
I don't want you to read them, but I just can't rid myself of them! Even now, when those reflections seem far from the truth. I hoard them. They are pasted on my mirror.
So I stand, begrudgingly transparent. Front to back, see through and scared shitless you'll discover I'm not perfect in this personality economy; I prepare my list of apologies: