The Non-Poem

I want to tell you what this poem is about

But I can't, I won't

I'm ashamed

I want to tell you all of the details of my life

The good, the bad

The unnamed

If I were brave, like Toni Morrison

Or I didn't give a fuck, like Sylvia Plath

or I could somehow conceal myself and still tell a compelling story, like

whoever wrote that "Go Ask Alice" book

Then this poem would be easier to write

And easier to say.

As it is, the light of day catches my face

And reflects me and my words back to a captive audience

Who may or may not listen and may or may not judge

And may or may not discard my message or carry it with them

Fuck. That's a lot of pressure.

And yet, I want to tell you. Really, really badly.

Call it human nature, or narcissism

But it's nice to tell people what you know and what you're thinking

and especially what you've done

So they can validate you or be confused by you

Or hate on you, or ridicule you

Until you feel very, very small...

Never mind, I can't do this poem at all.