by Richard Vince
While the girls playfully confessed,
I hid myself away under a blanket
Of shame that still shrouds
The avenue of my memory that is
Still solid Sunday afternoon.
That voyage of discovery, that journey
To the centre of the self, could never
Truly be enjoyed, as I was always
Aware of the return leg that followed,
Of the need to peer round my secrets
To face them again.
Perhaps that was the beginning of
The idea that a day spent
In the world inside my own head
Was a day somehow wasted;
That what I imagined was less real
Because it was not reality.
Perhaps that is why there is still
A part of me hiding in that bedroom,
In curtain created half light,
Willing my life to become half as good
As my fantasies and begging
Monday never to arrive.
Perhaps that is why I have never
Written about this until now.
Or maybe it is just the guilt I feel
For being normal after all;
For not being the nice guy I so
Desperately wished I was; for being
No better than the legions of boys
At which I gleefully sneered.
This has long been the darkness
Inside me, the shadow behind my soul.
All these years I have looked back
Without looking back far enough.
Now that I can see it, perhaps I can
Move on at last.
Posted on 01/17/2019
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