stigma

 "Dreams of Flying" by George Grie

after they have gone

i am alone with the words

the words they said

the words i heard

the words i imagined

the words i said

the words they heard

or perhaps did not hear

because they were not listening

though they pretended to listen

and in sinks this feeling

i know it so well

like the brown spot

on the inside of my left step

a beauty spot they call it

a mark i say

this feeling of something

this feeling of nothing

this feeling of a wet whip to the brain

this feeling of a white shock to the eye

and then i dream they will go away

not the whips or the shocks

not the words

but them

i dream they will go away forever

that i may rest with the words alone

and so i sit by myself in this darkness

that is broken by an artificial light

that i have allowed

i sit in this room

and the walls grow taller

and wider

and tighter

i sit in this chair

and the colors deepen

and glow

and pool

i sit

and my shallow inkpot becomes a well

i am a diary filled with words

filled to the brim but not overflowed

and yet locked

and the key discarded

and i dream they will return

not the walls or the colors

but them

i dream they will return

that i may think of something unsaid to say

some words with which to pretend a conversation

but why do i wish my words their own imprisonment

and with this distracting thought

the words are scattered

and my face smarts and my eyes sting

and the moment of my collapsing heart threatens

and i am mortified

with shame and humiliation

though i am with my Self

and She is with me

i am stumped

at catching my Self in this weakness

and my eyes want their explosion

but i do not allow it

i do not allow

this involuntary expression

that deforms a face beyond recognition

because i am afraid to cry

even with my Self

because somehow

if

if i should cry

i might lose a measure of pride

as if this measure

whatever its weight or size

can somehow save me

from the stigma

i do not allow

this involuntary expression

and though a measure of pride is retained

something in my heart is heavy

something in my mind is dark

with the

weight size

of this mark

of this stigma

of these tears unshed

but then comes Love

my love for me

because who will love me like i love my Self

and narcissus loved himself

so what of it

only an imbecile does not know

                        he loved the water too

and i wish i could live

and i wish i could die

and i sit by myself in this darkness

that is broken by an artificial light

that i have allowed

i sit in this room this chair

my tears like rocks in my eyes

and outside the moon sits in the sky

and glows like a polished crystal

but only an imbecile does not know

                        the moon does not glow

and my tears will not flow

no imbecile will see me cry

no imbecile will extend

a mocking finger and pretend

to dry my tears

only to lick my agony

and learn how salty my soul is

no imbecile will touch

no imbecile will know

my stigma is mine alone

hidden

like the brown spot

on the inside of my left step

and i sit with it

and it sits with me

and the walls grow taller

and the colors deepen

and my shallow inkpot becomes a well

and both diary and inkpot overflow

this is my infernal pleasure

this is my delicious license

this is my stigma

and mine alone