This is a Personal Poem My self's self is thinking about itself. Trying to sell...

This is a Personal Poem
My self's self is thinking about itself.
Trying to sell its self a new self.
Don't worry, reader,
I'm not trying to fool you with language,
I have eyes to do that with.
I have forgotten our history,
I have forgotten how we met.
Reader, are you upset at how fast we're moving?
I'm likely with you in your bed,
between your hands, somewhere
in your mouth before
whatever it is you'll say next.
Say yes and now and love too.
Say what did Judith Butler say when saying, " … one is undone, in the face of the other, by the touch, by the scent, by the feel, by the prospect of the touch,
by the memory of the feel."
I want to know you, reader.
I want to know a lot of things.
Can we ever truly forget about ourselves?
Is every self a self that makes itself available to love?
Like death. And its kind availability.
Like language, reader,
would we still be so unhappy if we could escape it?
To name the namelessness that is love, in what we read, and what we see,
and what are feelings really?
Facts or flaws,
or something tells me now
that I must leave you, reader.
It's not you, it's me.
We guess at why things end, we ruin things, we start and stall,
and all all all we do
is want.