Self-Careless

There’s a level of hatred, almost a skill.

To feel like the winter’s first bloom

(Small, alone in the frost) in the busiest room.

My phone emits steamtrain vibrations,

Memes, groupchats, “I love you”s.

(“Do you really?”, I think.  I’m a cynical fool.)

To wield power, all power, to smile,

And to shine.  But to hoard it in spite

Or your own tired mind.

Not even a selfishness in your embitterment,

Choosing, the choice well-presented,

To suffer, not grant yourself joy (and for free!)

It is something else,

To be achingly lonely because of yourself.