This is a Portrait of Me

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Despite my resistance,

or perhaps as a result,

I live within boundaries,

yet am unable to discern

clean edges, as all walls

fall into grey on approach.

The poem is dark, as you,

who like a peeping Tom,

slip through these words,

hoping to glimpse more

at the window frame open

before you than can be

imagined on your own.

This is a portrait of me

within a frame, a simple

frame, not minimalistic,

certainly not ornate,

for either would provide

far too much that is not

a part of me as if it were;

and, you would believe

these thick lines to be

exposing more to you

than I could possibly

reveal on my own,

as if I do not know

what it is I write.

It is arrogance to think,

on my part and yours,

without blinds one can

see all that exists

within a well-lit room

while standing on the street,

as if life were a simple

sentence tucked neatly

in a proffered book,

like a love letter

marking a certain poem

lovers shared in secret.

Oh, do not tell me how

to see the lines I write,

nor open my words

to finger a wound,

probing for pock marks

to read like Braille

along bloody bones.

Yes, this is me here.

Yet, it is just as much

not me. My borders

extend like language

blurring dialects

with familial tongues.

I refuse to speak

Into the silence

simply to speak,

as if any sound

by itself could be

enough to save us

from our muffled

dread always near.

 

(May 27, 2018)

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