i try to be 22. but i barely got to be 21, 20, 19, 18, … i look at myself, and think,
i try to be adequate. but most of the time i’m not sure i am. when i speak, the words i utter are sordid images of thoughts that clutter my head. you could ask, why not try to be candid. that’s when
i try to be a good friend. but my experience remains so far detached from the reality that contains me. i question whether i have within me the power to affect. to afflict, however, that capacity i am certain of by now. still,
i try to be loving. some nights, when i can’t sleep, i am subsumed by the chronic unfulfillment, born out of failed attempts to love. i devise and i plot, but everything i do either falls short or falls somewhere else entirely. i am deadset on my need to be affectionate, and so
i try to be nurturing. my palms cusp to water the plant i’ve lifted onto a pedestal, but it shies away from my looming figure; out of fear of what, i don’t know. sometimes i’ll take hold of it and proffer sustenance, and then i have crossed a line i hadn’t anticipated. i back away, and
i try to be understanding. but my mind freezes, and at that instant i can offer little but empty consolation. all my affection remains veiled under my substandard deliveries. what more can i do, than just listen. when i’m quiet, that’s when it crosses my mind
i’ve been trying to be everything at once. i wonder, if i am anything at all?