Retreat back into my shell like a hermit

into my cave, which is dirty, my own disrepair

covered in old clothes, new clothes, clean clothes, dirty clothes, employment papers,

tax papers, resumes, and pay stubs.

What kind of person must I be that even my sanctuary is polluted?

 

Everyone writes their own and life’s ink is no exception

to errors and misspellings, and misjudgement,

to missed opportunities and lives lived with mouths buttoned.

 

We all carry secrets, and when we voice them they are half truths

with parts redacted, black ink on black paper makes a darkness that’s reflective

of the cages of our own design.

 

This is something that I’ve built with my pen and paper, my knowledge of construction exists only as my knowledge of verbs.

 

And adjectives describe how I feel when I take on the world.

This superman complex, I need to fix it all, but only if I do it all at once.

And I never do, bothering me because I know that I can,

 

so I retreat back into my shell like a hermit

into my cave, which is dirty, my own disrepair

covered in old clothes, new clothes, clean clothes, dirty clothes, employment papers,

tax papers, resumes, and pay stubs.

What kind of person must I be that even my sanctuary is polluted?

This is a tangible story where I am the antagonist, when I should be the hero.