It grows dark already here in the cold northeast
and the blue hour approaches.
Will tonight be different?
Will this be the night I overcome my naked wanting
and content myself with what is real and what is here,
or will I once again slide into that pool
of scalding desire for that which I apparently cannot have?
People say I have been blessed,
they say I have been gifted with the art
of touching others’ souls.
How little they know, these admirers.
They cannot know how it hurts
to pull and twist and shape these feelings
into words to be read and digested and felt
and, maybe, even, remembered.
Do not envy me.
Do not wish for my facility with words,
for I tell you now
that there is blood you cannot see
smeared on these pages.
© 2012 RC deWinter
The writing life.