“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.”
