The Man In My Head

He was the only person who had never called me weird
He had ironed clothes and curly hair and a hint of a beard.
I can tell him anything, though I am no ear glutton-
for usually he talks to me
resting his feet
above his bellybutton.

"I have long since given it up, I realized today.
Trying to help real people understand the things I say."
His eyebrow raised above his eye, a personified protrusion
As if to say, as was his way,
"Now how did you
arrive at that conclusion?"

I've always read in story books that heroines keep journals.
I can't invest myself in looks, and I'm strictly diurnal,
So if I want to heroine myself, (I'm told that's right)
My two choices to get the boys,
are to scribble,
or party every night.

(Although I don't understand why,
the correlation's too strong to deny)

"Just, I can't open myself up, not even to a pen.
And trying only tells me that I'll never write the end.
But really, nothing's wrong with never finishing a story
Continuing this silly thing
Might not be real,
but it will not be boring."

(Although I like I-R-L friends,
they always want to hear "The End.")

So I think I'll keep talking to that man who's in my head.
Those conversations are exciting, though never reread.
My kindly man listens better than any boy I've dated.
Speaking of me, reality
is contrary
and slightly overrated.

I could explain this all away and into trenches fall,
"Or I could just explain to you,
and then that would be all."