"I don't quite like myself"
Is probably not the honesty you expected
I don't quite know what to do with myself
Did the wrong thing at the wrong time
Too weak, too skinny, and what the hell's on my right cheek?
And He critiques me; all of me
He convinces me, with thick certainty,
That any decent self-retrospection
Would invite some extent of disliking
For myself; but of course I don't know that,
But he does. And so I do.
It's normal. This is what it means to feel
Okay.
Well, I guess He's right.
I see high heels and a dress passing by.
I can't genuinely walk in her shoes and
Live in her skin if that's what He's asking.
I'd say that's a failure on God's part
But if he's absolute then
The failure's me.
"Well you finally got something right"
He says, and I stare back.
We got the same eyes,
We got the same look.
YOU ARE READING
Ode
PoetryHere's an ode to the night he/she left; here's an ode to the anxiety you feel on a sunny morning and everything was supposed to be fine; here's an ode to the feelings left unexpressed; here's an ode to the words left unsaid, or perhaps what can...
