as an introvert. I know it too well
every time I cut a phone cord connecting me
to extroverted empty heads
whose teeth keep clawing at themselves.
I know never the way people do
on seeing their tribe emerge from acres
squished into wedding halls
where you wonder why you’re a stranger;
we’ve never met before.
I defined never, dodging fragility
blocked ears to romances
cried to with tears merged into facial creams.
They’ll think never is a lie
because movies can’t die with such commitments
so their happy endings are a tyranny.
We need more concrete doctrines to live on,
something realistic please.
Shackles to hold emotions floating into
airwaves we’ll never breath into one another again.
But introverts need their exposition,
linking figurative arms with a paper buddy
we pen our hearts to as teens,
with a dream weighing the world down
‘under the burden of…’* melancholy.
I subconsciously named you Peter Pan
because I found you youthful
but you were Wendy who died when she left.
Reaffirmed in your desire for a simple love
for girls who can’t recognise eternal,
Because all they want to do is
cling to you to get by.
*Allen Ginsberg’s ‘Song’