Scoundrel

When I sit myself down for the big talk, I shout
“What’s it going to take? When am I going to get out of my own way
and reach out for
what I know is mine
what I know I want
what I’m entitled to by the mere miracle of breathing through one more day?”
The thief of my dreams, the critic of my art,
the veto to all my giant plans
shares my skin, my history, my heartbeat.
She is unwilling to be evicted, although
I seem to give her notice every day.
Just as I’m ready to reach out my hand,
I turn the back of it on myself, stick my foot out to trip myself up on yesterdays, should’ves, somedays,
only to cry at my skinned knees, my skinned heart broken.

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