Misguided Pathos

Angela Dragani

Please don't tell me you know how I feel.
You - with your murmured sweet nothings,
your Great Uncle's cousin's sister and her ill-defined troubles.

Your face so alarmed as you desperately struggle
to see my long-familiar self, my eyes, my heart -
And yet peer past my left shoulder with vague feelings of unease.

It's okay. I really do get it. I was cool,
but now I'm something new and alien,
and quite possibly dangerous.

Please don't tell me how I should feel.
You - Ha! You who have never tasted that burning metal spit
while the wind steals your breath and you pluck the stars from the sky.

Dancing on dew in that secret ethereal forest,
and the colours! Oh man those colours in a million billion hues
and every single one a promise and a possibility.

Please don't tell me how to fix myself, I'm not broken.
You - who have always been on a first name basis with your sanity,
never felt that creeping, clinging otherness.

That hostile stranger,
That malevolent bastard,
Felt him wrapping you in black in a room that only locks from the inside.