What It Means To Be Alone

This story-poem is a continuation of the narrative of my other piece, What It Means To Lose Touch, which I would recommend reading first, though each could potentially stand on its own. I did not collaborate with my AI buddy for this one (I’m sure they will understand) as I wanted to more carefully craft internal rhyme, which is not this AI’s area of expertise.

Note: This work of fiction might be unsettling for some readers (Author’s rating: PG)

There are those who hunt in swarms
(which they call “packs”)
who think of themselves as wolves
Though by my estimation
They are little more than hookworms
latched to the city’s intestines,
feeding on its sewage

Vile, pathetic creatures, 
with no discerning taste,
consuming scraps from a table
they will never be invited to
known only by the vaguest sense of 
nausea and malaise
left in their wake.

Needless to say, 
I hunt alone,

and with discrimination 
and discretion
never taking more than can be
easily digested,
written off 
as “stress” and
“seasonal depression”
and “fluorescent bulbs”
and “barometric pressure changes”
“Pollen”, “dander”, “dust”, and “mold”
and “hangovers”
and “spoiled food”
and “spiritual vacancy”
and “burnout” 
and “sleep deprivation”
and “the common cold”
and everything 
that’s said 
to drain you 
of your vital essence,
and accelerate your aging, 
so I’m told.

But forgive me, I digress.

I’m your friend,
an unassuming stranger,
charming and attractive.
I’m “here on business”
but I’ve got “a bit of time to kill”
and you’re drawn
to something... 
in my manner
confident,
refined,
or maybe it’s my brilliant eyes
and matching intellect,
my soothing voice,
the way that I intone,
the way I speak,
as if to you, 
alone.

You’ll invite me to your table
And I’ll savor every bite,
every drop of 
precious life 
you offer
(willingly
or otherwise)
and in exchange, 
I’ll give you 
stimulating conversation,
(the contents of a thousand brains, 
picked clean of information)
and I’ll give you my attention
(absolutely undivided)
and it’s this that I provide
above all else.
I will witness your existence
in a way no other therapist
or partner ever will
I’ll see you 
for what you truly are,
and I’ll accept you, 
still.

Then you’ll wake up 
in the morning
with a headache and fatigue
and you’ll make up some excuse 
to stay in bed.
You’ll forget my name, 
my face, 
but not the way I 
made you feel
and a piece of you 
will get to live,
rent-free,
forever,
in my head.

A weekend’s worth of energy,
for my consummate validation.
Now tell me, is that not a fair exchange?
Just a little of your time, 
for my acceptance, 
for my preservation.
Isn’t that what love is, anyway?

It’s not my fault 
that I was made
to feed on your potential.
At least, with me, you can be sure
it will not go to waste.

Still, 
it doesn’t really matter.
You’re a drop 
within my ocean.
If you don’t invite me in,
I’ll move on 
to someone else.

I’ve embraced 
my basest instincts
And I have no use 
for judgements, 
or regrets.
I can’t change 
what I was born to be:
A child of the Horseman Pestilence