Confession of Constraint

I can’t be what you think I am.
I can’t tell you why. I can’t
think why. I just know it,
beneath knowing. It’s
always there, like
the monster
under
the bed
in which sleeps
the child all through
the night, restlessly.
After all, the monster
is still there, even if child
and parents agree it is not.
And the monster is not there,
because we all smile so
brightly, chatting, bold —
direct, forthright.
There’s nothing
to hide.
There are
no secrets.
I will answer
any question asked.
Just ask! If you really
want to know. You’ll have to ask
a question that leads to the words
that are locked up. You’ll have to
ask me the one question,
the question with the
answer I don’t
know I know.
Just ask.

About these ads