not really a hole
more like a crevice
that i keep stopped up with
peanut butter and false laughter
smeared haphazardly
but never disguising
the widening ache
why am i the outsider?
why do i stand on one side
of the cliff
and reach, invisible to the joy
on the other side?
i have love
and my independence
why do i need more?
written nov. 20, 2006
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