At surface level I’m sure it appears, depressingly to me,
however it may feel to you (if it even concerns you at all)
that every day at an undetermined time, a portal into my mind appears
and allows you one brief glimpse, one chance to step inside and steal
one tiny seashell from the beach of my inner existence.
Perhaps it feels more to you like winning a ticket to a strange museum
which only opens once a day for minutes at a time, and by its feigned rarity
makes you feel like one afforded a special privilege. You may be right.
But to tell the truth (or some fraction of it) it feels rather more gross to me
like suffering from a skin condition in which my outer coat,
my careful protection, is rotting slowly and I peel it off in chunks and
look around for some receptacle to lay it in as proof
that various parts of me are dying.
So call it a museum, if you will, and maybe someday I’ll have shed enough
to cobble something really worth the ticket but my hope is, on that day,
that I’ll have peeled it all away to leave a raw and humble creature
who no longer needs to speak and, metamorphosis complete,
the museum will shut down since its owner will have flown too far away.