What Hurts the Most is Seeing the Thing You Want

What hurts the most is seeing the thing you want

And not feeling like the moment to grab it is at hand.

Some strange distance is between us…

The girl at the ____________ register

Myself.

Sure, I can talk to her about Yawning.

I can tell her about my theories on time.

What becomes difficult, however,

Is working up the nerve to flirt.

I don’t want to

Because the situation is wildly inappropriate.

I don’t like flirting.

I want a steady conversation.

 

As a youth, there were those I played with

And it just clicked.

Rare were those encounters,

Where I just clicked with someone else.

The play was fun…

They got me, I got them.

There was an ease of knowing them

Like I had known them my entire life.

All sincerely cliche lines,

But we still all know the feeling.

Precious it is, it’s how I met all of my best friends.

 

Why one of them wasn’t a woman;

There’s always been a strange fear of them for me.

A fear of obtaining them;—

I have that fear of getting to close to them

On the chance that they would find out what I was really like

And walk away.

 

But on rare moments, I could be just myself

And similarly find myself at ease with them.

I suppose I want conversation more than anything.

I want agreement, even if I’m dead wrong.

I want resistance on moral truths;—

Not intellectual ones.

I feel there is a strange chasm between me and the woman at the ____________.

Perhaps if we met at the book store.

Perhaps if we met anywhere but there.

But then again, I am quite unimpressive.

 

A woman wrote a poem about Echo and Narcissus.

I felt like Narcissus.

Perhaps I am becoming him…

However, I don’t like peering into the mirror

To look at myself. I am hideous.

Rather, I have been taught to love myself by therapy…

I would like the _____________ employee to unlearn me

Of all those tricks.

 

Therapy seems to colden and deaden you to the harsh realities of life.

It seems to put up walls,

It says, “Don’t trust anyone.”

And soon enough, you live, can wipe your own ass,

Can eat and live off of work.

Just, something is missing in life,

The more important part.

But I have the pressure of family

Telling me all life is about wiping myself.

Wiping my mouth, my butt, putting soap on my hands

And cleaning out the nether regions.

As if that is the only joy of life.

That, and doing labor I am not willing to do

To serve a purposed end of what exactly?

Did I forfeit my happy life from two crimes in youth?

If so, maybe I don’t want to take care of myself

If this writing cannot earn me enough to win bread.

 

So… I twirl about two desires

Being an author and being in love.

I want to be an author for the purpose of wiping myself.

I want to be in love for the purpose of having something beside

Hygiene to live for.

If you could understand my families indoctrination,

Life is all about cologne, toilet paper,

And eating. Pleasures to be derived

From the excess of bodily functions and their expressions.

Of course, I became angry at one of them in particular

When they said, “Let the TV raise your kids.”

It had never been their philosophy of life…

One of the things I appreciated most was how they nurtured me

And cared about me when nobody else seemed to.

But, life is all about liquids.

It’s all about dopamine.

Meanwhile I stand quite helpless

Not wanting my life to resemble it.

The girl behind the ____________ counter could have fixed it…

But, truthfully, was there a chance at bonding?

None whatsoever.

She had a job to do.

I had a job to do.

Anything extraneous beyond that

Would get her in trouble.

As, that exact life is what I despise.

We could have been soul mates

And the de facto laws of business

Kept us apart.

Somewhere, I’m looking for a life

Where you just meet the girl in your tribe

And fall in love with her because you don’t know any better,

Marry her, and then grow up and have children.

You’re never taught to covet beauty,

So even when someone more beautiful arrives

It’s not this immediate lust and gravitation.

You simply don’t know any better because there is no sexual desire

Except for the one person you found it with…

That woman you met in your village.

Yet, there were old maids then, too.

So, I have no surmise,

Except to say that I didn’t want to flirt

Because I felt a boundary.

When I find the right woman

I want there to be no boundaries.

Rather, if she shows up at two AM,

Or I do, we’ll be none the callous for sleep.

 

In laymen’s terms

I want a friend I can have sex with.

I think that’s what everyone desires in a mate

As there is nothing else in this life worth obtaining.

Success, glory, honor,—

It seems too much like wiping myself.

Rather, when I’m old,

Maybe my desire is for there to still be someone left to wipe me.

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