Show me how this goes.
Nothing seems to fit right these days.
You are a decent looking house
but I’m still buried under all this rubble
and it’s starting to affect my breathing.
There are layers of this onion that don’t want to be peeled.
My ego real sensitive and he don’t like knives.
I keep telling him that this salad is going to happen whether he like it or not,
but he real stubborn. Thinks he “should” be this and “ought” to be that.
I need to know how you put him in his place.
See this ego – his head all swollen with self.
I need you to show me how to let go of this shame,
how to resist the familiar pain that screams my favorite tune
with open arms and warm tea.
The path you once cleared is overgrown.
But this machete got a dull blade
and I can’t hack through all these faulty beliefs about myself.
Lately, when I take long walks at night,
the darkest flowers been growing up my ankles and legs
and I’m breaking out in fantasies.
I’m allergic to everything except my daydreams of you.
You look like a dude who I could totally grow into
if only I knew the right combination of laughter and sin.
I hate your serenity.
I hate your calm.
If you read this letter, I hope you remember who I was
and speak my name into the stale night.
Now I am everywhere
you have ever been.