You do not believe in the boogieman
behind you.
Fear might not be what has you running.
I think it is your face.

I think it is a certain type of shame,
a type of shame which comes from
unsettled matters of self;
questions you have
but which no one may answer,
as to you they are unspeakable;
answers to which you are inextricable;
answers which’ d strip you so naked,
nudity would become your tattoo
if you dared ever ask them-
no matter if the answers confirmed you;
questions with which you are
uncomfortable enough that
even in the safety and confidence
of your mind, ideal answers are doubted.

I think it is your face.
Why you focus on it.

As if you prefer beating yourself
to the first punch.

It’s not because you want to own them,
It is because of what you own already.

You present as a mixed bag,
and sometimes within you
stacked amidst you
and the unrealized past,
something new appears.

But this I can only tell
in the stars.

Formations in the constellation-
subversions to the straight line-
nose dives to the mean.

All that jazz.
It speaks to recency.
And nothing more.

I think it’s your face.