where my naïveté lies

It’s hard to put into words,
But I guess that’s why it’s becoming a poem.

It’s a fear response,
To mundanity;
To reminders;
To triggers.

I drove past a childhood friend’s old house,
Across the street from my primary school.
My hands gripped the wheel.
Squeezing the late 80s rubber,
It felt like it would squish between my fingers,
And find its way out like bread dough.
And I would have to explain why.
Admit why.
Admit vulnerability.

I’ve driven past this house so many countless times.

Why now?
Why give this response now?
Why not when I was there?
When I was a kid?
When I was vulnerable?
When I was I should’ve known,
I could have done something.

I could have saved myself.

You could say there’s guilt there.
Hidden underneath the new astroturfed veneer.

I guess you could say it’s haunting me.
That myself and others were,
Taken advantage of.
I just wanted to fit in.

Before that, felt like a dream,
A non-reality.
Vanilla skies,
Where my naivete lies.