Atelophobia.

Buddy Wakefield is one of my favourite poets. And this might be my favourite of his poems. Once I had a dream that I met him. We were at a party and I just ran into him. I recognized him and started talking to him. We became friends. I spent most of the dream telling him how much I loved this poem.

My closest friends have watched me beat this brain senseless for as long as I can remember, bangin' it against my heart, combin' through the loose skin, makin' a bloody mess, admitting to every recognizable mistake in an effort to come clean, clean, cleaner; frenetic attempts to get it right, stand upright, pseudo-heal a babbling body, swab a swab around inside another wide-open wound. Knife fight in my ego. Hyper considerate hate-wad. I know what cards I showed you. I know whose tables they're on. I know how often they've lain there along. It was my choice to offer you that much information. It's no surprise I want the powers of a boomerang. You shouldn't have given a grinder food for thought. Stop. 

That was then. It was an unnecessary attempt to acknowledge every flaw, confess up every ugly, expose these crooked caves, highlight a habit for fault lines, derail the details, just so I could own it. I owned it, how relentlessly guilty I went, with the hope that if I finally got to be beautiful, no one could hold it against me, that I might deserve arrival, so you won't trade me back for shame.

I didn't want you finding out later

like it matters now.

Stop. 

I am not here to disrespect your expectations or steamroll anyone's gift. I don't wanna step on your toes. I apologized. For where I came from. For lookin' like that. For spinning out. I spun out on spinning out. I habitually cultivated every single insecurity by thinking it until I spoke it until I lived it until it represented me in towns where I stayed for any longer than a few days. People saw me when I lost the smile inside their 10,000 nitpick questions. I grew so goddamn impatient.

Misfire. Stop. 

Desperately greedy beat up brickmouth. I repeated myself again. I re-told where I came from with new words. New distractions. Still believing the story. A river runs rife with guns at the bottom. I tried endearing myself to you from the bottoms up. Guns blazing. Eyes blazing. Words blazing. There are still some calluses on my throat from the day you walked out on my voice. I peeled them back to the root of envy, stared down the barrel at a tragedy, until all the pinched skin pulled apart from my hinge. I came unhinged. The weight of my head collapsed in on itself like a camping trip. I used martyrs for matches, but love is not a forest fire. Stop. 

I was mad at all the years

I lost on being mad.

Stop.

Unfair is a domino snowball.

Stop.

Stop.

(Buddy Wakefield)