Invisible Walls

There’s a place between us
I call, The Glass Wall
and I’m fine as long as you don’t knock on it
like the door it might be
because I’m not too good at sharing my secrets
and I’d rather keep it invisibly latched and have us whisper
meaningless chit chat through the miniscule gaps
until you get the hint that it’s time to go away

Bukowski once penned something that made sense
to my loner soul strings
“I don't hate (people)
I just feel better when they're not around.”
and yet I get so confused between
the here and the there
the want of connection and the
fear, that in the end it’s all a waste of time

I’ve danced with betrayal like it’s a room full of bugs
that have become immune to the insecticide I wear like perfume
and while I aim for a “fuck off” sign on my forehead
I sometimes wonder if I only got it half right
and it says “fuck me over” instead

So I don’t wonder why I’m lonely
and so socially inept
why my way with words begins at my fingers
and ends at my mouth where they get drunk on
awkwardness, and fall out the wrong way

There’s a place between us
I call, The Glass Wall
and I keep telling myself I’m fine
as long as you don’t knock on it

© Indie Adams 2013