Why on a night like this
so cold
so cutting
would you go so deep
ask such penetrating questions
so smoothly
so sharply?

Did I offer permission
give any hint
we had reached such a point
that you could sift through my soul
quite so easily
picking up pieces
like, like… clams?

What made you think I’d find that OK
other than how I’d wish and pray
you’d look my way,
just give me a glance with those gorgeous greys?
Why would you conceive you’d have sway
as to how I would possibly go about my days?

Stop. Cease in this razing of my spirit
assessing me so excellently.
I do not need from you
what professionals have failed to glean
after decades of attempted shrinkage.
I will not be decoded quite so easily.
I refuse.

don’t prove that I am so easily uncovered
and restlessly cast aside.
Let my disguises
be better prepared than that.

About Jonathan Berger

I used to write quite a bit more.
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