Some Stranger

I’ve always wanted to talk to a stranger with patient eyes about my life.
I’d tell them about how my best friend was Shawn Quinn, in elementary school.
I’d talk about the first time my mother let me walk home by myself.
I cried.
But then I received roller blades. And it wasn’t so bad.
I’d talk about the trauma in my childhood.
The neighbors, who had disgusting fingers that touched me
I’d probably talk too much about it.

I’d tell them about how much I loved ugly sweaters
My parents never approved
I’d remember the family Christmas parties
And how much I adored them.
I’d grimace when I talked about how I engorged myself on toffee and water chestnuts

I can’t eat either anymore.

And I’d probably give a large amount of time talking about Heather
The first woman I fell in love with.
How it began beautifully
And I stayed up nights aching in my soul for her

It didn’t end well

And I was proud of myself for moving on
Proud of myself for thinking of her again
Without feeling much of anything

And maybe I’d talk about my apathy
How very recently it began creeping upon me
Like getting numbed in the cold, clinical chair of a dentist

About how I no longer care to remove myself from the world
I can happily have a cup of something
With Death himself

I’d tell them that in some non-understandable way
I hear soft, caressing music
And am happy

I’ve always wanted to talk about my life
To the kind eyes of a stranger