my mother tells me that I cannot be

         everything for everyone.

she is, of course, right.
but I do not have an explanation scripted,
so I gape at her.

        how can you be everything for everyone,

she repeats,

        when you are barely enough for yourself?

        these games you play,
        don't you tire of them?

        how long will you keep pretending
        in this charade?

says it as if this is what I want,
as if insufficiency is what I desire,
when it was she who first
taught me to play.
I am jealous that she has
so quickly forgotten that
these games are all we’ve ever known.

         what do you stand to gain?

she demands again,
and I am not imagining
the desperation echoing
my own unanswered pleas,
imitating the comfortable pretenses
of my own well-worn facade.

her voice is the gunshot in the marathon
I can’t remember if I’ve

started or finished,

and I wonder later if it is

clarity or confusion

she detects in my eyes when I respond,

          what do we stand to lose?