There is no escape, I sing,
from the pain of being me.

Uh-oh, still hung up on that? you say,
taking the superior position,

and I the foolish one
for refusing to crow
that I’ve worked it all through,
that I’m over it, mature now.

I wake up in the night
and know I’m not.
Admit it, don’t you?

Why shouldn’t I till I die
admit my pain? Mourn my life?
Complain?

You have my permission
to do it too.

Forever crippled, nervous wreck,
every day I ask myself,
Will I live?
For it surely feels like I’m dying.
These might be the last days of my life,
this, the final page.

Almost with relief now
that nothing can be done,
almost cheerfully
I sing in age:

There is no escape
from being me.