and i don't understand how
anyone can be happy when they are alone,
when voices crawl from hidden places,
shadows lick hurrying heels,
the distinctive scent of self-loathing creeps up unbidden,
cloying and sharp.

i don't understand happiness
without someone to build it upon.
i can't grasp the concept
of contentment in solitude.
i don't know how to be okay
in the time between late to bed
and early to rise,
when i pace endlessly
and hope against hope
that someone is awake.

and i want your attention
the way a wound wants a bandage--
urgently
but fleetingly
         and i know i need stitches to heal,
         but at least you staunch the blood flow,
         and if there isn't a mess,
         it's like it never happened,
         even if it
                                    never
                                               stops
                                                            bleeding.