I’ve thought about being someone else for the longest time.
Wash out the blonde, brunette, waterdown the hazel,
even stir in some testosterone.
How much have I sacrificed being who I am,
when I could have been someone else?
I like me. But I bore myself.
I cross the same bridge,
with matches in my pocket;
I come across the same Dead End,
the street name never comes to mind.
I’ve given away too many spare keys.
Too scared to change the locks, I move on, away.
These intellects follow me and mold into
coworkers, lab partners, best friends.
These molds invite me to meet at the same bridge.
Sometimes I leave my lighter at home.
I put too much faith in people, people
who laugh and communicate through touch.
They know I trust action over word,
so they burrow themselves deeper into my boundary line.
Whisper compliments in one ear;
dig acrylics into my side, digs I translate to tickles,
as they push, scratch, marking direct routes to my heart.
They perform x-rays with just one hug;
never knew I was that easy to read.
No one would meet a man alone on a bridge.
A man – six-foot-two, full beard, dark eyes –
has no time to lace something in flames unless
it’s his cigar after a good fuck.
These intellects would shiver shy in the presence
of this man. These intellects may flash a smile
to him, but butterflies will return to their cocoons;
this man has someone waiting for him back home.
Sometimes I wish I was somebody else.
I’m tired of worrying about
every single thing outside my house.
I want to be somebody else, walking across
that bridge and reach the end,