I’m listening.
Anxious, attentive—
others’ inner lives
burrow into
my marrow.

Am I cursed with
eyes for the unspoken
and a vulture’s
sense for moods,
yet I fail once again
to be understood?

The rage I carry
isn’t all mine after all,
but the burden
of those left behind—
unexpressed
and remorseful.

I’ll bloodlet from
the wounds
your soul wants to hide.
I’ll set free the poison
you bury underneath.

I prefer truth
over comfort.
It hurts—
I know.
But it’s what I do.

In dreams,
I return—
to spirit,
to bones.

I come home.
I remember.

I chose this time:
to set down the things
that don’t belong to me—
to us.

Things that don’t want to,
and shouldn’t,
carry on.

Marginalia

I wrote this after I’d uploaded my natal chart into AI and had started digging into what the chart had to say about me. This piece of writing makes me cringe more than anything I’ve written to date. I think it’s because of how sometimes I can ask such pointed questions, often without thinking about how I’ll impact the other person. Bloodletting someone’s inner world without permission isn’t something to be proud of. Also, it’s a bit melodramatic, which isn’t unlike me (The picture tracks!). I’ve considered taking the poem down but I feel it’s probably my turn to feel exposed for a change!