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2003


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2004

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04-05


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And You’ll Never Know I’m Here
©2000 Janet Stickmon

I have stumbled upon your space,
Where your bare feet trod,
Where the breath you breathe is your own.
Old wounds, worn-out dreams, modest, intermittent resurrections
All color my past
Bruises cloth my body.
May I still enter?

I promise not to wear the garb of a participant.
For one must create space for a participant
Ill just slip into the role of spectator,
Watching from the outside in,
Sitting at the edge of my seat,
Laughing with you,
Crying with you,
Wanting with you,
If I dont comprehend, I cant ask,
For I am a spectator,
So, I will reach out, and for a brief moment, I will be with you.
Living and loving the charade.
Wiping tears and sweat from my face,
Looking down and then seeing my seat,
My seat and the distance separating me from you.
The revelation sears my self-deception.

Pardon me.
I have forgotten that I am a spectator.
I will be in no ones way.
No abrupt motions. No graceful flourishes.
Only soft-spoken words that you will never hear
And youll never know Im here.

I will not ask for your attention.
For it takes energy to give attention.
Instead, I shall welcome numbness,
As I stand alone in a room of many,
A piercing loneliness more pronounced than ones own solitude.
I will be in no ones way.
No cries. No complaints.
Only insincere smiles and seething indignance
And youll never know Im here.

I will not ask you to live this horror with me.
I will not ask you to touch my blood
Lest your routine be disturbed.
Instead, I will sit in a white chamber,
Nurturing the despair that invites my inadvertent suicide.
Never calling out,
Afraid of witnessing my lament fall to an irrecoverable depth
A suffocating depth,
Where hope is swallowed by death,
Where grace cannot resuscitate the human will.
I will be in no ones way.
No footprints. No breath.
Only memories of a silhouette.
And youll never know Im here.

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Copyright ©2005 Carayan Press