You ask me to bring my whole self into the room,
and I wonder if you know what you’re asking for.
See, some parts of myself haven’t spoken to each other in years.
Some parts have yet to meet, and fear the day they will. You hardly seem prepared for that kind of reunion.
Some parts only emerge from their shells to the call of their kind.
(They’re adapted to survive that way.) To pry them open for your viewing would be death.
Some parts of me aren’t made for rooms like this. They’d scratch up the floor with their jittering claws,
Dent the ceiling as they leap too high,
Fill the space with unruly screeches,
Until you’re sorry you invited them in.
And maybe my self isn’t a whole,
but merely a part–
a part of many
that is fully alive only when rooted into those circles and lineages that have shaped and are shaped by it–
It can’t really live as an uprooted centerpiece at your table.
You tell me to bring my whole self into the room,
and I wonder: What do you think you’ve done for me that I owe you such an impossible feat?
They said, So what’s your type?
I said, Haven’t got one, But there must be more than two, And if you’re in, me and you We can play this game with no teams and no winners– We’re neither the saints nor the purest of sinners, But be my incentive for sticking around on earth, And I’ll be yours too. We’ll never find stars down here I’m told, But our participation here’s prized above gold.
So let’s make a story about me and you No need to represent Nothing to represent
Not theory nor experiment. This is a story about me and you:
They’re so glad to have you here
So long as you’re not too much of what you are,
And can fit yourself inside their narrow outline for one of the good ones
(Exactly one of the good ones).
But now you notice it’s feeling tight
And you’ve spent your life climbing up their pedestal
So you can be a prop:
One season change away from going out of style,
One slip away from getting knocked off.