That Was That

He looked at me
and told me what I couldn’t be,
though I was that and had been that, 
always.  Said, “If you don’t look it,
you’re not.”  And for him, 
that was that.  And for me,
as well.  He was wrong, and so
I put him behind me, and that
was that.

Another told me that because
I didn’t sound right, I wasn’t that.
“It’s that simple, that’s how you win,”
and that was that.  And for him, 
that was that and for me too, so when
I put him behind me because what I called win
was for me a win, and so he was wrong,
that was that.

And then another, and then another,
and then another said I was not 
the one, and for them that was that;
and for me too, almost, because I’d given them
that and now I was no longer that.
“It’s not you, it’s me,” they said, and for a while
I disbelieved but then I changed my mind
and put them behind me, and told myself
that was that.

Now, all those naysayers behind me
have been talking, and they’ve gotten to know
each other, and they call “Fraud!” and “Phony!”
in unison whenever I am quiet for a minute.  
And that’s that.  That’s what it is.  A chorus
of shit-talkers I half-agree with.  I say, “That…”
and then cannot complete, cannot compete
with their dismissal; though I dismissed them myself
once I know that saying “that was that” meant nothing
at all.  I’m pale and flat and dull and wrong, and that,
I gather, I believe, and I know, is that.