Pity Party

 

When the self loathing begins,

my mind opens its doors 

like a tired doorman, 

not bothering to look up, 

and allows all of the thoughts in. 

Everything 

that was said and 

everything

that was felt, 

that was unkind and 

unhelpful and

unwarranted. 

All welcomed in as if 

I was hosting a cocktail party 

that invited these thoughts, 

naming them warranted, truth, and necessary.

In that lobby, 

I sit on the couch 

and watch all my mistakes,

real or assumed, 

walk in and glance

at me. 

They begin to whisper 

about me. 

And I pull my collar further from my neck 

in discomfort 

and in escape. 

I watch them 

watch me. 

And I begin to nod. 

I begin to make myself smaller 

and make certain I am not showing 

any signs of confusion 

or anger. 

Just to only look as guilty as I am 

for ever being anyone 

that would need to be thought of 

in this way.

By me. 

And. 

I know that the guests will leave.

I will clean up their scattered.

Their remnants of scowls and

shards of cruel and

spills of ire.

I know that I will regroup.

I will put my face in a cat and

in my hands and 

in a sunbeam.

I know I will smile, 

again.