Story

This is what one might call a flash poem. Completely unedited, totally off the cuff:

Shall I rehearse for you
the story of what it is
to be this?
I am not a perfect thing,
nor shall I ever be, but
this - this is what I am.
And do you understand that?
Can you claim to count
the heats that simmer
under my ruined skin?
I am all at once a star
and the absence of light,
exploding, fading, rising
falling. Do you see?
I am unacceptable, but
still such a simple fit
that I go unseen.
Shall I rehearse for you
the story of what it is
to be this?
I am come for my judgement
and you'll hand it out
freely, without pause.
Do you come back at all
to think of that?
Can you be ever other
than what you are?
I am wrong, wrong, wrong -
the word that, no matter
how you say it, is always
wrong. Do you hear it?
It's there, singing and
screaming in a million
million voiceless voices
under my eyes.
Shall I rehearse for you
the story of what it is
to be this?
I am full of this nameless
compulsion, words that beg
to leave my body, and you -
who gave you permission, love?
You have it, though.
King of the castle, ruler
of all you survey. You get
that, don't you?
I am nought but earth, beneath
your booted feet. I am nought
but guts to spill, and hands
to be rapped for their great sin.
You, most powerful, you, most
holy, have me in your thrall.
You, most wise, do you even
know?
I am answers to questions
you never asked. I am
wretched, but I am unafraid
at least.
And shall I rehearse for you
the story of what it is
to be this?