The memoirist is never reliable.
Never able to find a trench coat
wide enough to hide the faulty memory,
the handicapped perspective, the charming
but inevitable, self-censorship.
But love me for my bias,
love me for everything I leave out,
for the things I keep locked in closets,
under hat boxes that don’t hold hats,
under scarves and flat basketballs, enclosed
in old shoeboxes, half empty, but mute.
Love me because I don’t bother to organize
my darkness, love me because I might never
air it all out. But I’m realizing that in order to arrive
at the womb, eager for rebirth,
undressing is necessary first.
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