comfort in company

I WANT TO BE THE PERSON          that is not afraid of being left. The person that has been left only a few times, by those that didn’t count for nothing, by those who did not leave spike-trails behind. I want to be the person who feels like silence relieves instead of like silence swallows. I want to be the person who is not bitter. I ask myself with every relationship: is my anger justified? Have I been hurt? Am I demanding? Is it just me, or does everybody I come close to catapult away. Is it just me, or am I cold, in winter, in summer, in love, in hate. Is it just me, or am I always leaving, always being left. Is it just me or was every word without meaning because we ended wordless.

AM I       a sensitive person, or are the ones I love softly purposely brutal? I watched a man die at my work. The beeping of the monitor growing louder as he sat up and curled his legs into his chest like he was going to be sick but only shook. I didn’t mention it to someone until a day later. They say, this job will beat you if you let it, but I’ve registered raped children, dying teenagers, abandoned old people. It hurt me none. I am selfish. Death clings to people not ready and I’m indifferent.

People scoot away because my atmosphere is infectious. It says, I need to go somewhere, and people nod, yes, me too, and it says, I want to die, and they, uncomfortable, move away until I’m no longer talking, and neither are they. People are sad until they have something good to gnaw. I am faithful to my sadness. He told me I was beautiful, and then he said that my sister, who is me in so many ways, was ugly, and I said what makes her ugly? Her sadness. You can tell she is sad. It infects you. Her arms cut up like a veteran. Was I sad enough then? I am now. She is a state away and I let it bury me. Comfort in company, of any kind.