I don’t know. That’s
the phrase I utter
most often;

I don’t know what to do
with stray feeling, with
random thinking. Sometimes
it perplexes me; sometimes
it maddens me; most of the time
I let it flow over me until
it’s gone.

I don’t know if I should be
bothered by any of it: the
odd musing, the terrible
sweetness of wondering
what I would do if it ever
reached into me and seized hold
and compelled me to swift action
which I would regret for ages
and ages hence.

I don’t know where it comes from.
I don’t know where it goes
when it has run through me —
does it pour out of my feet
into the earth, does it rise from me,
does it wrap itself around me
like a stole? All I know

is that I sit here bewildered
for a long time after, thinking
about self-immolation, thinking
about how I am cold in its wake
and I don’t know how to get warm
again, if I ever was truly
comfortable in this skin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T