Opinions of the River

This month was a handwritten apology that wasn’t asked for, that was resented when it came. That was explained when it was turned away.

Everyone has a narcissist somewhere inside of them. He seeps out of the eyes you carefully, importantly, took a sliver of wall down for. He’s in the way they avert their eyes and defend themselves when you decide it’s time to feel something, that this time it hurts too much to be the empty pocket, the cushion, the one who feels things last so as not to make anyone uncomfortable.

He’s in the rocks during a shroom come down, the whisper of the water is his voice, and they’re all talking about you.

It’s in the way she punishes you, not telling you why.

He is there, but he waits until you’re already afraid to make himself very known.

He tells you that you’ve said too much, that you’re an open wound and you’ve just peeled back one more layer of skin that nobody wants to see. He tells you it’s uncomfortable to look at, but he doesn’t offer you a bandage. He tells you it’s your paranoia, even though nobody will meet your eyes.

This month was a hand written apology, ripped out of the book, crumpled, thrown, and written again.

I’m sorry.

I miss you.

I’m worried I’ll never smell you again.

I wrote a poem so long ago saying, I’ve been dancing in and out of people’s arms, and it hasn’t changed since then. I’m afraid of how you would look at me, if you saw me now. How much have I changed? I’m afraid of how other people look at me now, am I doing things right?

Sometimes anger is warranted. Sometimes it gets you to where you want to go, faster.

I will soften myself and align myself in a day or two, but today I will allow myself to be angry, I will allow myself to brood, I will allow myself to rip out the page and light it on fire.

I’m going to allow myself to watch it burn, get up, and walk away.