You ask about my life,
And my soul squirms,
Writhing in private agony,
Cringing at this invasion;
Panic-stricken, I answer you in clichés,
And you ruthlessly hack down my defenses.
You back down, feeling hurt,
While I retreat to a shadowy corner
To lick self-inflicted wounds.
Mortified, remorseful and guilt-ridden,
I fumble with words;
An attempt to articulate
Something I do not understand.
Paradoxes, contrasts, contradictions,
Trip over one another in the making of Me.
I am a confused bundle of opposed thoughts,
Full of conviction, yet unsure at times;
Aggressive, scared; open, anti-social,
A feminine feminist, a conservative non-conformist.
I make you uncomfortable, as with most people.
Despite your valiant efforts to comprehend
The complexities of my existence,
My socialist, secular, liberal friend,
You cannot begin to understand
What it’s like to be me.
Can you accept the harmony of discordant notes?
I can make you comfortable, but I’d rather not.
Having probed into my psyche, insisting on the truth,
Perhaps now it is time for you to squirm,
As I go back to the shadows, whimpering in solitude.