They’ll figure out
what I’m doing — or,
worse yet,
that they already have,
and now I’m a ticking time bomb
of my own making,
painstakingly created,
impossible to defuse.
What happens
when I
die?
Everything I have ever loved
will crumble unto dust.
Where
do I
go?
No one truly loves me
as I wish to be loved,
with a painful sort of aching
that cannot be helped,
seen in every gesture,
beheld gently,
and accepted without judgment —
in fact,
I am only tolerated.
I am resented.
Who
do I
become?
What
have I
become,
already?
