Naïveté. Entrapment of cathartic desire
concealed beneath folds of misapprehension.
Naïveté beckons with demonic undertones
to desire the horrific. Naïveté envies
through silent anger victims of rape
and vicitms of burns and lacerations paid
by their fathers' violent anger.
A wise, a saner voice asks
why empathy extends only to victims of drunk
and violent fathers, or perhaps a Munchausen mother
by proxy, poisoning her son's oatmeal. No pity
I ask, for pity may smother more. No.
Neither squirming nor shock at my story. No. No more.
Not your first uncomfortable visit to the world
of residual "emotional dysfunction" from
an unprotected childhood. No more do I want to be
your token freak, your one-uppance in tales of mistfortune.
Like a ghost of story. No.
I beg your silence, your ears.
And perhaps if you too can sit in pieces
of broken innocence, I beg but your companionship,
your arms around my chest, my chin
allowed on your shoulder despite
the tears soiling your shirt.
But instead I find naïveté painted
Naïveté: (to) consider the reactions of the sane
to the insane as naïveté.
No empathy. Only fear, repulsion that makes pain
Then worse. The verdict.
The two sentence answers to lifelong battles
fought in the demon dark corners
of a haunted mind. I don't interrupt anymore.
Just see naïveté.
Naïveté: (to) consider the reactions of the insane
to the sane as naïveté.
Until the "h" word broke through the stupor.
Wait, me? Yes. Then, oh, temptation of escape.
Wanting nothing more than a pillow, sinking into covers
staring at a wall. With others. Like me.
So perhaps this is, as they say, a sever mental illness. No more.
No more no more no more. Naïveté.