What Is It?

I hide my head

Inside my shoulders

And tightly hold myself

To stay upright

/

‘What is it

About me,’

I begin

To wonder,

/

‘That makes me feel

So small,

So full

Of self-disgust?’

/

‘Which

Of the secrets

I won’t tell

Thus dwarfs me?’

/

‘Which

Of the lies

I told

Keeps me thus chained?’

/

I lower to the ground

My eyes,

Dark, wounded,

Haunted

/

And almost run,

Although,

I know I couldn’t

Run away

/

From shame:

It floods me

Every

Morning

/

I drown in it

Until

It’s all there is

To feel

/

‘What is it,’

I wonder,

‘I don’t know

About me,

/

That makes me

So deeply,

So relentlessly

Ashamed?’

/

Is it the fact

That I am

Truly

Devoid of beauty

/

Of any kind,

Known

And unknown

To man?

/

Is it that, like the air

Which feeds my blood,

I am

Polluted

/

With every kind of dirt,

Know

And unknown

To man?

/

Or is it, maybe,

That I am a woman,

Whose hands and heart

Are cold, incapable of love?

/

Or is it simply

That I am too human?

With hundred strengths,

And weaknesses, and doubts?