Basal Psyche.

The pianist pounds on the low keys,
each new chord pounding into my heart like a punch,
a low, hard, blow.

The music, whatever it may be,
is all that know who I truly am.
It sees me at my weakest,
crunching down the pain,
sopping up tears with bread,
praying,
masturbating,
for some sanity.

The smile, the confidence, it's all a lie,
feigned to protect my true self,
the heart that is weakened with each kiss,
each secret, each party I didn't attend,
couldn't attend, and, even if I had,
would have watched from behind glass,
the laughter hitting my ears, bouncing off,
falling to the floor.

They think my conversations are rarities,
philosophical deviations from the gossip of the
typical high school mind.
That they may be, but the reason is not some
desire to be esoteric, not some urge to push people's minds
beyond their comfort-
but a shield, a blanket to keep them from seeing the innards
of my own mind- the sick thoughts of loathing, the obsessions,
the deep depression- since I can remember.

Thornton Wilder thinks that people are meant to travel
through life in pairs- I've tried to be his person.
My whole life, seeking for my pair, only to
be rejected- by them, by myself, by circumstances.
People may travel through life in pairs,
and I commend them.
I lack the nerve to look for my yang.

I've become too comfortable in this amoeba,
this dark blob one half short of a circle.