In the wake of November,
with summer in slumber,
the men in your head start chatting.

One feels inadequate,
a young boy scorned by a father who mistook rage for love.
"Sometimes I just feel so small."

Another performs,
measuring approval in laughs.
"Laughing at me or with me, it's still about me."

The most dominant smirks,
cigarette in mouth, leather jacket clad,
too cool, too tough, way too cinematic.
"Hey, kiddos."

And in unison they chanted: "We won't face our fears, we won't solve our problems."
Instead they all turned their blue eyes
to a new girl
who, with a camel crush in her eighteen year old hand and
insecurity in her walk,
cannot yet distinguish that there are
many not one.

"Hold me."
"Hold the applause."
"Anytime, honeybaby."

One day in a park or your bunk bed
she'll see
you're too afraid to be you.
After all,
that's why you couldn't love me.