I’m being punished for all of the things I haven’t done
For all of the things I’ve done reluctantly
Things I'm ashamed to have wanted to do.
For the times I should've just done what I wanted
But I can’t talk about it
And it's always the shame
I can’t get out from under.
Maybe that's the divide
Like they all do
And feeling like an observer.
Once you start paring off the unsavory bits
All you're left with
Is bone and sinew
No one wants the gristle.
And I’m tired.
Harry, the other night
When that man stood on the overpass
Hands gripping the cement rail
Looking down as the train approached
I stopped dead and
Grabbed you by the sleeve.
"What?", you asked.
We watched as the man waived a pendulous arm
Like a little boy
And the train called back, sounding its horn.
As the man turned south to watch it go
We started walking again.
"Shit", I said, more to myself than to you
Looking at my feet.
"I thought he was going to jump."
"I know you did", you said.
"You would think that.
You always expect the worst."
Like it’s my fault.
Like it doesn't happen.
Like we all choose to see things the way we do.
But, like valuables
This was sewn into my fabric a long time ago
It’s a part of me.
It is me.