I think I am unlovable. (Or, another bad poem about myself)

[patronsaintq]

First, I:

an individual reaction to sour, or memory of the sun. Or

the tree at the cabin who felt like my mother, mine

alone

Or,

how some jangle-legged neighbor decides that my body reminds him of a dream
     he had once, swept up in an ex's Misfits cutoff.

Maybe,

it is swimming in the delta

Dog-paddled, salty-eyed, a firm

deja vu.

Now, love.

There is no beginning.

The stitches form a circle.