Gnawing Dark

We pick bad people when we need good ones

and let nothing stop us from plucking

the darkest berry from the brightest clutch.

Reading messages on a Sunday evening,

I see the warning signs fly by again and again,

blasting me with their sonic weaponry 

while I ignore their beating wings and tender eyes.

That awkward feeling of wanting to say hello,

while also respecting that they have their own priorities,

their own music to plot down and choreograph,

and the sudden swooping sensation when you realize

that you aren't the main character in their story.

I want to scream so loudly my vocal chords snap

like the icicles i would chew on as a child.

Anything to let them know I care the right way,

and that I recognize I'm not anybody's first pick,

and all the annoying accoutrements that flock

with feeling inadequate.

I'm so tired of feeling small.

That I never grew up when everyone around me did,

and that the little boy wearing his father's suit is done pretending

and wants to grow up, for real this time.

But I also know that my place of privilege is one many would die for,

and that by clinging on to the remnants of my youth

is nothing less than that which a floating survivor might cherish

as they bob in the wreckage of their civilization in the middle of the Atlantic. 

I raise a finger to my temple, drawing on the cord of thought that tugs 

my heart strings to their inevitable conclusion.

It's so dark now.

And the stars have all died away,

fleeing from the gnawing dark 

that lurks behind every crevice, every shadow.

I wonder, as I close the journal I keep with me at all times,

Will she dream of me?

And know only silence as my answer.