Await.

I have a visitor once every soap cake.

When it’s down to a sliver I know I’m due

I put a fragrant new tablet out
That I extracted from my undies drawer
And for a day or so it looks proud and clean.

I have a visitor only once a soap cake
It should probably be more often than that
And I can’t tell why I am so unwelcoming
Probably because I’m as anxious as hell
And too eager to please.

I’m sure potential friends can sense
Toxic sweat and raised blood pressure
Yet some persevere and come back
This is a constant surprise to me
When I’m itching for them to leave.

I wonder when I may settle into myself
And just breathe deeply and be
Able to truly enjoy the company of another
It's really torturous to appear relaxed
Every neuron is poised.

I have used up a soap cake and now I’m expecting
Who will it be, and will anything eventuate?
Hope is powerful, is it an emotion?
I imagine that a true friend may be discovered
And with them my flesh can relax on my bones.

Do I talk to a therapist about this obvious blight?
How do I explain myself without seeming peculiar?
How do I formulate myself adequately
Seeming troubled yet intelligent but not at all needy
And hold my mouth right on my face.

But my cake of soap is pleasing, pungent, new for now
And I await the visitation, hands wringing.

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