I thought I am a strong man.
I thought I am incapable of love.
I thought I had enough walls
around me
to
protect me
from it.
I thought I had extricated, once
and for all,
the need for it
from within,
deep within.
I thought I had succeeded,
that I had
become
a
self-sufficient man.
But I was wrong.
Wrong.
To the bone marrow.
Wrong.
To the spiral structure
of my very DNA.
Wrong.
I was wrong.
The need still lurks within.
I can feel it,
within,
I can sense it,
growing.
Growing.
Inexplicable.
Love.
I haven’t learned
the art of it.
I don’t know how
to reach out for it.
I have never
experienced the tough of it,
the glow of it,
the touch of it.
Love.
I have deprived myself of it,
all my
life, -
the joy of
it,
the flow of
it,
the taste of it,
-
for fear of
hurt,
for fear of
rejection,
for fear of
losing control,
for all the
foolish reasons
in
the world.
In
the world.
Ah, the depth of my folly.
The extent of my
crime.
Ah, the shame of it.
The shame of
it.
Ah, the shame of it.