the last thing I want
is for her to feel sorry for me ;
yet it is exactly what I want,
the odd duality
of a supposedly mature man,
if any man can
actually be mature.
We are all children really,
lusting after our
mother -- as Freud says
plotting the deaths of our fathers,
poking out our own
eyes
when we wake up and realize
how childish we have
been,
this intense sense of
jealousy
over something we
claim
we don't really want,
aching down deep in the bones
for something we know we should not have,
and falling into a
tantrum
when we see the treat
we want
in someone else's hands,
this duality that has
nothing
to do with right or
wrong,
a fine kind of
madness
to which pain is the only cure
and time.
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