“But why

would

you prefer

to read

there?

Why so far

from here?”

Because I’m 

selfish 

for your attention

and when it

fades

I anger 

and fill with shame 

that I so quickly hate 

all that I love,

and I run away 

in what ways 

I think 

I can, 

and I run to perhaps 

distract my sense

(it feels real,

I promise)

of rejection, 

and I run

close enough

where you can 

find me 

(with some due-diligent seeking), 

which is what 

I want, really

but I’m too

cowardly to admit

these cravings 

aiming to manipulate things, 

namely, you rather than me.

Pride would rather me 

hide behind another

book, song, poem

in another room,

seething while you,

at first confused, simply choose to 

sleep in peace. 

It’s really so self-defeating

I think, 

this running, 

and something 

I hate about me– 

my self-idolatry–

but seem to sink

right into its 

lap again, 

saying:

“No reason, really.

Just a change of scenery.”

“OK, baby.

Good night.”