When I Embrace Solitude — a Poem
I sure do hate to spend time alone
for an introvert with this many anxieties.
I like to be left alone but, please,
don’t stray too far from me —
I promise I’ll talk to you
when I’m in the mood to, eventually.
It’s not like it’s up to you, anyway.
I’m bringing you with me wherever I go
because we both know that if I don’t,
I’ll never go anywhere at all.
This summer I barely left the apartment, at all.
But even within the safety of the shade,
the scorching sun managed to infiltrate;
penetrated my room
to blind me, to suffocate me,
tempting me to relapse into melancholy.
How could this be the happy season those poets wrote about?
When will my summer be about flinging
and falling and kneeling
on the grass,
eating sugar from the hands,
spreading wings, and rolling across fields?
Why is it that all I know
about this time of the year
is just a glowing glare
following me, wherever I go,
wherever I hide?
My body bombards me with
sneeze after sneeze
because how dare I believe
I should be able to breathe
during the summertide?
And why can’t the heat make me feel
anything but question all my choices,
thrusting upon me an existential crisis
of another life long after my passage?
How long till I learn to enjoy
the timid peep of the rosebuds
and the torrent sweep of the rain?
Will there ever be a summer
where I’ll see what you see
and won’t need to drag you in
to drag me out
to show me that I’m missing out?
I know I’m missing out.
I know I wasted too many summers saying
this just isn’t my season while praying
for the winter winds to come already!
Even though, we all know
I never leave much during the cold,
So how much of my season is winter, really?
All I remember of every December
is the anticipation of the first snowfall.
When I scream, “It’s the first snowfall!”
When I take a blurry picture before I go
and tuck myself into a hundred cloaks
before waking up to the world
tucked under a hundred layers of snow.
But will I go out and enjoy the weather? No.
This got me wondering,
is winter really my season
or did I only say so because I could hide
in those months without being questioned?
I can enjoy my hot drinks and my silly shows
without worrying about the world moving on
because most of us are either home
or can’t wait to make it home.
I suppose my hatred for the summer
is rooted in having to watch you leave
and I love the winter
because you have nowhere else to be.
At last, you’re stuck with me!
Now I get to be
as much of a loser as I can be —
comfortably —
because I know you’re falling
apart with me.
But now that you have a job and good friends,
clear goals and a fashion sense,
I can’t stand it.
And yes, I’m embarrassed.
You’re supposed to look up to me, remember?
So when did the tables turn and I ended up under?
How much longer till you forget about me and move on?
You haven’t been needing me much these days yet without you, I’m lost.
I dream of a day I won’t have to tell you
about the movies I’m excited to see.
I’ll buy my own ticket and go to the theatre
and take a hundred selfies with the posters, you’ll see.
I will no longer be tormented by the number of eyes watching me.
I’ll still hang out with you then
but not because I have to.
If you want to pose by the posters,
I promise I’ll stick out my tongue and
give the lens a wink and
won’t inflict my anxiety upon you again.
I’m sorry I mistook your confidence
with the fearlessness of public opinion.
I suppose you had as many anxieties as I did
but, unlike me, you managed
to push forward til my hisses
and nerves and awkwardness
set off your own self-consciousness.
It is not you I’m embarrassed by —
it is my own existence.
Let’s hope that by the next sunny season,
I will have sweated out all these anxieties.
I will have faced all my demons
and won’t be needing you to look after me.
I’ll have learned to breathe alone,
I’ll have long let you go.
Though until then,
you don’t have to know what I’m up to again.
This poem contains allusions to Mary Oliver’s “The Summer Day” and Paul Laurence Dunbar’s “Summer In The South.”
© Chitta B. 2023. All Rights Reserved.
