Literature
first.person
he has never been happy in the first person, has always
kept his distance and hidden behind the ever-present you,
has tucked himself into a crowd of we and us and they –
his teacher once said that I
was no good for an essay, I
was neither formal nor convincing, I
was too specific a skeleton to build
a body of proof around. he thinks
he knows his bones better than anyone else’s,
but soon learns that it is better to cut a
one-size-fits-all garment in arguments,
and never quite trusts I again.
I, he thinks, is the monster hidden in a closet of taboo.
I, he thinks, is the rot in an apple made of wax.
I comes to him at night gas
