I Will Never Tell You Who I Really Am

Hemingway said it so it must be right;
‘All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’
Here is the truest sentence that I know;
I will never tell you who I really am…
and you will never ask.
It’s in the places that I am supposed to belong
that I often feel the most alien.
Where I feel the most puzzled,
like driving with bald tires down an icy slope,
like the unexpected hem tangletrip on a stairway.
These people,
 who are the life and soul of the party,
the ones everyone likes,
What a great…….
sometimes those are the very ones that make me feel like an aging, infirm wolf,
my eyes closed in ragged supplication
and throat turned up.
I’m tired. I’m sad. I surrender.
I can’t relax with them,
and their slickness,
their glib and their easily trotted out patter,
seems so obvious,
seems so painted-on-veneer phony.
Is it only me?
It’s me.
It must be.
Nudged to the edges,
I sometimes fall over,
(sometimes I’m pushed)
Birthdays never noted,
success never acknowledged.
‘What’s that? What accomplishment?
Oh…isn’t that…
 with an acid lip crimp that says it’s anything but,
and an immediate segue into their Larger! and Better! 
exploits and feats of wonder.
Oh that’s just the way they are…
get over
get around
let it go
‘Be the bigger person.’
I’m not big. 
I have tried big.
 I can’t fill the shape or the shoes or the role.
I’m small, I’m nondescript and I feel closer,
more connected,
 to the corners where I can blend
chameleon like,
the quiet spaces that don’t interrogate 
and force me to wear this greasepaint,
that don’t squeeze me into an ill fitting costume that bites and pinches,
into ersatz interest in a conversation I don’t quite follow…
and only form answers to hours later.
I cringe,
I creep.
I grin ingratiatingly and nod my head like a vapid bobblehead doll,
and I hate myself for it. 
Every time.
I will never tell you who I really am…
and you will never ask.

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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2 Responses to I Will Never Tell You Who I Really Am

  1. wordwitch88 says:

    brutally honest but so profoundly sensitive – well rendered

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