I need to write myself all better please.
When love approaches my gut clenches up.
If certain shapes come looming over me,
I flinch as if attacked. I back-arch-jump
when prone, attempting travel down in the Hurt
that blares from gut out all through conscious space:
a swirling chaos: twisted, broken, alert
to panics never found — threats never placed.
No, not a threat: a wound, a betrayal
a smashed-in, shattered watch face: belly full
of Hurt that owns my body — folding sex
up, shoulders down to squish up; it wrecks
my smile.

I need to write myself all better please.
I’ve wasted many weekends hiding from
a pain I can’t explain. I smile “cheese”
since nobody has space for what would come
from honest conversation in this life.
I’m lonely sharing so little. A wife
would be nice.
A wife is the one
who has space to care.
I could splice
me onto her sun,
all my truth to share.

That’s the system we have here.
None but a wife can
put her hand on your tummy
and say you are safe now safe to say
that you feel what you feel
even if you don’t know why
even if you don’t mean to

I can’t write myself all better

Author: BW
Editor: AW
Copyright: AMW