i'm always fiddling with the loose ties
of my metaphoric dress
(self-conscious fluttering
of hand and eye.)
i am comfortable when
i am on my own,
there is no limelight or glare,
no self-deprecating fashion
to my speech, my heart.
i draw a breath and it is real,
like a hand that reaches out
and touches, meaningfully.
i smooth away the wrinkles
of my metaphoric dress,
ironed and clean seems more acceptable
and it can be easier to fit in,
squeeze in, bend (always bending).
except at night, in bed,
bones and muscles ache
and cry until there is nothing but
cynicism left,
and self-loathing (it's never far)
at breaking my heart
to appease the general throng.
hyp⋅o⋅crite. (i like not fitting into
their stories and machinations.)
yet, it is what it is. a desire to be
'acceptable'. so i fidget,
fiddling with the loose ties
of my metaphoric dress,
never satisfied, never satisfying,
conscious of both facts,
always static and never at rest.