I used to be big
in the dust jacket scene.
I had things on my mind
too bearable to properly endure.
Any given Sunday
was the crux of my personal creed.
I could read the writing on the wall
in six languages and emerge unscathed.
I wore my heart as a hair-shirt.
I managed to let everyone
and myself down, and still do to this day.
I had a way of putting wonder to shame.
I woke up without
any recollection of my name
or how I came to acquire it.
There was a lump in my throat,
and once I swallowed it,
my throat came undone.