Enough.
Enough about me. More than. Enough.
Enough
about me. There was a time when there was not enough
about me. A time, sadly, I don’t remember. A time that must
now be a long time ago. A time inconceivable.
Oh to return to that time. Too late. Now. Enough. About me.
The time when there was not enough about me is over. The time before too much
about me. Long
gone.
About me, there’s been a ghastly surplus. Once I had a
dog. Once I had a
lover.
Once
I watered a flower.
I
used to
live
in. I once
visited. I once saw.
I heard somewhere once.
Enough about me. If I hear
one word more about me. Me. That one word alone. Me. Enough
of it. Impossible to think now there
was ever not enough about me. I’m up to here thinking about
me. It’s not all about me.
It’s not
about me at all.
Enough.
Enough.
Enough
is enough about me.
How
could there possibly be
so much about me?
There’s not enough
about
me to be about.
Enough about me. I can’t imagine anyone ever again asking
what about me. I can’t imagine anyone asking in the first
place.
What about me?
Who asked about me?
Who wanted to know about me?
What did they come away with about me? Were they satisfied about me? Are they
sorry now about me? I’m sure sorry about me.
Already so much about
me. Why is there so goddamn fucking much about me? So much
about so little of me. More and more about me. More, too. A mountain about me
out of a molehill of me. I'll tell you about me. A little about me would have been
enough. Would have gone a long way. Would have already gone too
far.
Too far to turn back.
About me. Not much would it have taken. A drop.
A few grains.
A wee dram.
A wee dram.
To be enough about me.
Before it would have been
too much
about me.
A surfeit of me. An overdose of me.
An avalanche of me.
We should have respectfully demurred about me. Deferred
about me. Declined about me. Deflected attention
from me. Said, Hey! Look over there, look
look at that
look at anywhere but me. There's nothing
to see in the space where there's me. Now we decline.
Now we defer. Now we deflect.
Now we are screaming. Too late. Enough about me!
What’s so special about me? Nothing about me. I’ve had enough. You’ve had
enough. We’ve all had enough
about me. What I think. What I like. What I believe. What I
don’t like.
What I do and do not remember. Enough about me. Let this be
it,
at
long last, once and for all about me, let it end about me, already too late
about me, better never than late about me. Sick to my stomach about me.
Me. Me. Me. About me.
Never again about me. Enough
about
me is enough
about me. This, I'd like
to think, but have a
hard time believing,
is finally, at last, the
fitting conclusion of
me.
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