Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken. <br />I don't see anything objectively. <br /> <br />I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist. <br />When I speak passionately, <br />That's when I'm least to be trusted. <br /> <br />It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised <br />For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight- <br />In the end they're wasted- <br /> <br />I never see myself. <br />Standing on the front steps. Holding my sisters hand. <br />That's why I can't account <br />For the bruises on her arm where the sleeve ends . . . <br /> <br />In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous. <br />People like me, who seem selfless. <br />We're the cripples, the liars: <br />We're the ones who should be factored out <br />In the interest of truth. <br /> <br />When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges. <br />A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers. <br />Underneath, a little gray house. The azaleas <br />Red and bright pink. <br /> <br />If you want the truth, you have to close yourself <br />To the older sister, block her out: <br />When I living thing is hurt like that <br />In its deepest workings, <br />All function is altered. <br /> <br />That's why I'm not to be trusted. <br />Because a wound to the heart <br />Is also a wound to the mind.<br /><br />Louise Gluck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-untrustworthy-speaker/
