Dear World:

I'm getting tired

of writing this story for you. 

 

Especially, knowing

you won't read it all the way through.

 

What if I told you

how it really is, 

gave you full disclosure?

 

You've proven yourself

not much of an empath,

so can you please explain

what it is about my pain

that causes you such great

discomfort?

 

Are you afraid reality

might be catching?

 

Is the mist of my persistent sadness

and longing

causing your carousel to rust?

 

When I am under the influence

of unexplained joy,

do you whisper to your friends

that I am under delusions?

 

She was always prone to hallucination,

you say,

regarding fact and fiction

as one in the same. 

 

And you may be right--

after all, I am what you say.

 

But what about the life

that was given to me

in a quiet, midnight room?

 

What about the love

that was conveyed to me there

in strictest confidence?

 

What about the Deep Magic?

 

What about space,

which is not space,

but Love (there isn't a word)

surrounding us?

 

What about (there isn't a word!)

pressed up against my body

so that there's no way to move

and no where to go

without being held

all

over?

 

If you can't understand that, World,

if you won't, 

I cannot help you.

 

I do love you,

but there's just no way

I can write you the kind of story

you want me to write.