am I so bad?
for wanting to know that peace?
I don’t have the time anymore,
I start all my poems in the middle.
No preamble, no watch on my wrist.
only anger, only fear, only
the knowledge that I’m alone out here.
I can go home anytime, but
in a realer way, I can’t.

you’d think I’d know how to stick it out by now.
for all the self-abuse,
I don’t have much stamina to show for it.
for all the ache and prayers,
I get what I asked for and
again, it’s not what I really wanted.
I’m starting to think I’ll never get
what I really wanted and
even if I did
I’d ruin it within the hour.

I am still trying desperately
to manufacture proof.
proof that they were wrong,
that I’m right, that I can
be good /...