I was a loner before I knew the meaning
of the word,
gravitating away from rather than
toward, spraying
myself with mental OFF, deflecting
people when
they took the time to notice repellent
was in place.
Often they assumed I’d been splattered
by mistake
and made allowances I never asked for,
accepting all
in spite of everything. They crowded,
they consoled.
They fed my appetite for time alone.
Closeness was
painful, inches of air between us
bruised like pitted
cherries grabbed too quickly, too
tightly –
lone peculiar bleeding into homogeneous
swirl.
©March 2019 Barbara Moore
Fearless #67