Who is it that we pretend to be?
I mean, who are we under these layers of junk
That we think is ourselves?

Too broad a question.
What about me? Though?
I've got hair growing out of more and more places on my body each day.
I've got whiskers on my face now.
But I still feel like a twelve year-old inside.
Exactly the same! Now that
I think about it

Still so unsure of myself,
Shy like you wouldn't believe.
(Both girls and guys.)
Afraid to say anything
Shy eyes darting up and down
The profiles of potential girlfriends.

Too ambitious, I'm sure.
They stop me dead in my tracks.
Why don't I just do what I do for every other thing:
Force myself to be outgoing
Force myself to act crazy.
It worked with the drama crowd.

They're all around me, tempting and mocking.
I could love every single girl I see with equal passions.
I know they all could give it back too.
But which one to start with?
Which one's the kindest, the nicest?
Which one's the blindest
As to not see that she's going out with a twelve year-old?

--Spring 1996