If I could read minds the way a scrawling feed

empties its bad or indifferent tidings across news station screens,

I think there would be a terrifying mistrust

that would stoke the guarded fire that already flickers inside.

Society’s blind rituals suggest unwavering trust

but it’s a dog eat dog world and most of the crumbs

are thrown far past us pigeons.

The battle for my overstuffed brain’s simple calibration

is intensely laborious and the complexities therein

feel unjust, but have been passively accepted.

Eloquence strips itself naked from my lips

because my words often crumble into muddy anxieties

The fear of being naked and vulnerable

Even in artistic settings

Is too much for a wounded butterfly

I’ve wrestled long and short

but am folding like a house of cards.

Social engagement stings too hard

Best I retire back to the womb.

Life looks at us through blindness