Not shame,
oh no, couldn’t it be anger
or trauma improperly stored
or some deep sadness
with more noble qualities?
Shame is so embarrassing.
The nose-picking quality,
the finding out
that really there is a bigger piece
and I want it.
The fear of masturbating in public
and not well.
The discovery of shallow self-loathing,
not even deep to the core
but buoyed with platitudes of reassurance.
Peeing my pants
due to a lack of kegels,
a deficiency of strength.
Discarding my loyal lover
for just a scent on the street
or an imagined half-smile,
or a fuzzy face not seen in a dream.
Shame is a nausea that can’t be purged,
an inevitable distaste,
a snapshot not even gone viral
by an unforgiving paparazzi,
but hidden
under a cheap polyester cloak.
Shame is too shameful
to admit,
it poisons the inner lining of our lives
and I can’t find
the emetic fluid,
the waiting bowl.