Don't listen to me; my
heart's been broken.
I don't see anything
objectively.
I know myself; I've learned
to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
that's when I'm least to be
trusted.
It's very sad, really: all my
life I've been praised
for my intelligence, my
powers of language, of insight.
In the end, they're wasted--
I never see myself,
standing on the front steps,
holding my sister's hand.
That's why I can't account
for the bruises on her arm,
where the sleeve ends.
In my own mind, I'm
invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.
People like me, who seem
selfless,
we're the cripples, the
liars;
we're the ones who should be
factored out
in the interest of truth.
When I'm quiet, that's when
the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like
white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray
house, the azaleas
red and bright pink.
If you want the truth, you
have to close yourself
to the older daughter, block
her out:
when a living thing is hurt
like that,
in its deepest workings,
all function is altered.
That's why I'm not to be
trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
is also a wound to the mind.
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