Too Big

Sometimes

I take up too much space in the world.

Like if the entire world were one moment

I would stick out,

awkwardly,

like a sore thumb.

Like a pimple.

Like a stain.

I feel giant of such

size and in personality.

And because of this, I start saying

sorry

too much.

I can’t help taking up all of the space.

No matter how many times

I go to the gym,

how well I eat,

how educated I am,

how quiet I can be,

how plain my features,

how I fix my hair,

my speech,

my hand gestures,

my past and present and futures,

I just keep taking up too much space

until I can’t even fit in the room.

I must leave

“Where are you going?”

I’m sorry.

I regret going.

I had to go.

I was annoying.

My retreat is not in this world.

In the real world.

It is where I paint my bigness.

Where I paint inside bigness.

Where bigness is radical.

Avant-garde.

Bold.

Where filling up too much space isn’t possible.

Where I can’t fill up enough space.

Where the world is my oyster

and I am the ocean.

I bathe in the light

that is yet greater than we.

I am big and I am small.

I am apart of something

greater than me.