have i said too much

Hi, well... it's been quite awhile since I've posted anything actually personal. Part of my hesitation over the past few weeks has had something to do with the readership here: who might be reading and how personal I can be with strangers. But, I'll try to shirk off my hesitations and get down some of the things that I might actually like to share...

Actually, even the following absurd draft-poem in this post is one that I hesitate in sharing because I don't want anyone to automatically assume that the speaker of this poem is me. This is always a kind of danger in writing... and I've gotten kind of close to some problems/misunderstandings because of it in the past. Can I trust the human mind and will to cast aside judgments on my character/state/etc. in reading things such as this?

Though there are still those reading who might decide that all of my fears and efforts to dissuede readers from identifying a poem's narrator as me are really a testiment to my own identification with the text... And I may be making all of this worse with every next word I write.

Doesn't this remind you of the times when your little sister, for example, tries to avoid talking about something and the more she says, the more she implies... Ha.
So, I feel like this little sister. And is that all that I will say?

I suppose this hasn't really been so personal afterall. Woops.

Needy Sugar Mind
(and that of a Diabetic)

Nope—haven’t checked my blood-sugar in, what?
three days? Yeah, the root-beer’s mine.
That too. Oh, but this as mad?
Did you say masochistic?
No, you’re right. This is masochistic.
I’ll cede to that; if you but call yourself
a Fit McGee. Hang on,
when the doctor asks, tell him I’ve
decided to die: go ahead and let
see what happens.
It’s about metaphysics; not you.
It’s not about science, of course.
No, this is about the skinny and the fat:
the insurance companies making a meal off of me.
No, I know you’re right. Masochistic.
Or, I’m letting them win—
Or, I’m letting the sugar win by not
letting meter machines run me…
my eating, my drinking, my sleeping, my being.

What’s the big damn
difference between a coma and a seizure if
both leave you in the same spot with the same sweaty condition,
relatively speaking.
No, wait. You’re right. I ought to start caring about the body.
Yeah, and here’s the clincher:
high or low, I already do care—
of course it’s not, I mean, it is—
about your body.
No dude, I got you right alright. I want your body.
I want your body.
Fit McGee, fit me.