to the Man In My Head
Man In My Head,
You live there–
(here I should say)
but I suppose I don’t need to tell you that.
You’re the one making your space.
You’re forever within the confines of my mushy, distorted headspace;
so I ought to pay you a visit.
Ah, Man In My Head, you’re quite wonderful–
you know that, right?
My puppet–you can’t hurt me if I’m the one controlling you.
You don’t make me sick with shame, regret, disillusionment–not like they do.
My shapeshifter–you morph into different beings, taking on whom and what I need most.
And, that, Man In My Head, is why you don’t have a name.
My comfort–you’re there when I need you; you disappear when I don’t.
But an idea can only soothe someone for so long.
You aren’t like them, Man In My Head,
You’re different!
(because I made you that way)
My guarded heart can open to your gleaming eyes (honey brown today), guaranteeing safety.
I’m daring myself–deluding myself–to believe in you.
Yet–you’re just a dream,
my dream.
And, here I am, waiting.
Working in solidarity with delusions, dreams, deceptions—
contentedly coping and waiting and pining
for you, Man In My Head.
AND YOU DON’T EXIST !
A figment of my imagination, guaranteeing the impossible “safety”,
but never enough to save me completely,
and that’s all that you are.
My single pill of ibuprofen to soothe the pain of a severed limb,
the pollution permeating my body could be purified by your embrace,
But, Man In My Head, you’re not real!
(please disagree with me, please be real)
I wish it were you that could
trace the soft palms of my fragile hands,
caress the warm plains of my forearms,
delicately dancing your fingers over the emerald and mauve running under my skin.
The Others aren’t so nice, Man In My Head.
Man In My Head, you always stay with me.
Thank you for that.
Yet, no matter how much I wish, I hope, I wait,
you are nothing more
–you can’t be anything more–
than
the man in my head.
Copyright © Isabella Clark | Year Posted 2024
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