Monday, July 30, 2012
The Customs of Being Customary
I was accustomed to these misfit confessions of mine,
they were routine at this point in the game,
whatever game this might be,
but you just kept pointing out that my recognition of these flaws didn't do anything to rectify them,
And I suppose you were right,
that may be the most sour tasting sentence I have ever uttered,
admitting that you might, in fact, be right,
that you might, even in theory, be right in this matter
We can just shut the drapes and pretend that we know how to make eye contact,
that we want to even look in each other's direction,
I know I can make those concessions,
in the name of this confession of mine,
But first,
you tell me why I was full of misgivings,
why I was some kind of misfit in these parts,
why I continued to be your square peg when I believed I was anything but
I was accustomed to feeling bad about myself,
you taught me very well,
but I think I wanted amnesia,
spoonfuls and spoonfuls of it,
all the while,
I was fairly certain you would leave me here hungering in no man's land
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