’m insecure, as in not secured, which is to say I feel my security is inadequate. When something is secure it is steadfast, protected and sure, the door won’t swing open on a sharp turn. My girlfriend hates metaphors. She says she would rather we just shut up and do it. And I think to myself, do what? Make things happen, she says. Make what things happen? If I was secure enough to turn my back, if I felt it was safe, I would make a world for myself where anything could happen.
      She says why discuss the ways we love? Isn’t it enough that we do? She thought I was talking about her father. She says we need people out there who just haul-ass and I can only think she is trying to talk about me. So I ask myself, what haven’t you done? When have you spoken when life said jump? And the list is immense. I’m insecure, so I can’t help but wonder if she’d rather love someone with a smaller list. I call them cowboys. Because I’m jealous, because I don’t want her to like cowboys. I want her to like me, only me. If it weren’t for me loving her I wouldn’t think about cowboys.
      I ask her if she agrees that I have a balance in the think/do duality. She says yes, but you’re more on the thinker side. I’m insecure, so I only hear more thinker and not the yes which affirms my own opinion of myself. When we first met she said she was attracted to me because I seemed intelligent. I was writing and it looked like I had something to say. That made me feel good, because I do have something to say, but what do I have to do? I don’t have to do anything, no one does, aside from facing the consequences of their actions or lack of actions.
      I know she loves me. I know I take things far too personally. I don’t want to be that boring guy, I want to be that fun guy. I fear she no longer thinks I’m fun, so I say “What do you mean more thinker? I sing, I dance.” I want to say more, go on about what I’ve done, but my girlfriend doesn’t think it helps to live in the past. She’s probably right.

So what have I done lately? What have I wanted to do? I answer myself: love someone who loves you back. So in addition to being insecure, I’m confused. I thought thinking was a good thing. But of course I would think that.

kay, the Door of the Law stands wide open. And if you have to ask, you don’t need to go in there. You’ve got no business in there. I’m not certain, but I think this applies to every door. One could argue that this defeats morality, or that this is a supreme moral—a love supreme, a love supreme. Maybe it does, maybe it is, but whatever the case may be, this skin sure seems to fit better dancing to that tune, because the zipper is in the front now. And when I’ve danced my heart out and this skin is damp and clinging I’ll peel it off in the moonlight. Grrrr goes the zipper.       I’m not going to die, I’m just going to change skins, as I’ve always done, as I’ve always loved to do. Skin, like socks, should be changed at least once a day, else something starts to smell funny. Skin, and the Door of the Law¾it’s the same. I am the door and what’s on the other side, just as I’m what’s on this side. What hurts is thinking that I am just one thing. What hurts is thinking that anything is just one thing.
      It matters, it does matter. And it doesn’t matter at all. See, my whole life I’ve asked, God knows who I’ve asked, Could this be me? I haven’t been malicious, nor do I see myself being so, yet it was guilt that made me ask these questions. Can I open this door? Does that mean I’m a bad person? Can I be better that I was thought to be? Can I rise higher than was expected? Can I be happy? Angry? Sad?
      I’m sad. Love me. I’m angry. Love me. I’m happy. Will you hate me, will you run away? I have become everything that I ever wanted. So love me. What if I showed you that I don’t need anything but I want it, I want it all? What if I lived, happily ever after, and never stopped laughing? And what if I told you I’ve never been sad, just too happy to express in a comfortable way.
      When I laugh I cover my mouth with a hand that no one can see. I’d give myself away, maybe never get it back, never live it down. But God hasn’t given up on me. I tell him my secrets and he tells me his. God doesn’t keep secrets, neither do I, and that’s the secret. And the hand that covers my mouth is the hand that holds this head. You can see it. You see, I almost forgot that I could change, that changing doesn’t mean you start all over, unless you want to, and even then you have to live with yourself.
      I’ve changed again. And again. And I’m happy but am I satisfied? Or is that a relevant question? Even your favorite pants get holes in the knees.

will not look away. This is not broken. I am following the crease of your smile. I’m following you down. My arms outstretched, my fingers trace two walls that are no longer smooth, that are no longer two. If these were stairs, and they are not, still I would count them. A point, your chin, your face the shape of a heart. We are behind us, we are under us, we are ahead of ourselves again, and then we are gone.