lack

it's hard to talk about;
all the time i've gone without,
claiming i don't need to be another bomb to walk around -
trying to diffuse the tension,
always confused,
not to mention
how the fear of being seen as something weaker-than was stronger than
my own defence and
i don't need attention, 'kay -
get another soul for intervention, 'kay -
'cause i won't be a piece in your possession play,
that's yesterday,
i'm up and gone and walked away -
don't know how to say
it still hurts.

i'm here to listen,
to put in my lines at intermission,
to read back the feedback required in my position.
it's an easier concept
to be on-script,
to sit back, smile, and steer clear of that guilt trip
of not giving a fuck.
i learned the hard way not to -
and now i'm so fucked that i can't when i ought to
sought you out to figure out what this was all about
and caught you, red fuckin' handed,
i can't stand it:
that you can't even handle what your choices got you -
two scared fuckin' kids who grew up and forgot you.
never quite enough though, i do confess,
but i've said enough here, so i digress.

if i could,
i'd tell you how i don't sleep nights,
and my trust is tied tight so i just pick fights,
and pop five pills a day,
'cause i don't work right -
never know what to say
because i speak out of spite,
and i hate not caring, but i don't know how -
HEY MA, i wanna scream, IF YOU COULD SEE ME NOW -
you might love me less if you could -
'cause ain't that the problem, huh - from the 'burbs to the hood,
"mommy didn't love me the way she should,"
i'd rather not whine, 'cause that don't look good,
"i'll be fine," i say instead,
and i walk.