if i seem a bit reticent,
and upon reflection i
doubt that i do –
and yet i am? –
isn’t that for
being read
like a book,
wearing heart
on sleeve, day after
day, year after year,
exposing myself? but
what if all of that public
humiliation wasn’t so much
for the unwitting, but rather
for the unseeing, uncaring,
shoulder-shrugging, could-
not-be-bothered, already-
inundated-enough, can’t
recall aggregate of aud
ience around whom
you (for whom you)
ripped out your
heart, tore it
into gnarled
and bloody
shreds, and
tossed them out
into that sum of
oblivious gatherings?
what a tragic waste of
well-played drama
that would be,
wouldn’t you
say?
