I am just one ounce of self.
One meteoric ounce that fell
like a plum pit,
plummeting from the sky,
to strike myself twice.

Firstly — simply:
To write is within me.
Fundamentally.
This is the evidence.
It is everything.
It is quite nice to see, though not pretty.
Not too pretty.

Secondly — innate, tragically
in just the same way
just intrinsically
that I must gnaw my nails to the quick,
until I bleed.

In just the same way
that all things can be simple,
but are not always simple.

Secondly — I am a taker.
Those close to me know this,
with a sublime solidity condensed
from vapor.
Cloudy first, but clearing
and cooling for years.

They give, and I take,
which makes
these the designations which draw
the boundaries of my relationships —
the almsman and the altruist.

Sustainability seems
an impossibility.
Though with vested interest,
an accomplished taker with a monstrous ignorance
of the inevitability of this instability
may take indefinitely.
Because in the last and ultimate shaking,
as the tower disintegrates,
prepared finally to dash itself upon the earth,
the giver forgives.
For as a giver
they beg for thieves.