The Bashful Boy's Song

I’d love to hug someone, but I’m reluctant.
I can’t remember what happened, but it marked me.
My dominant personality trait is fear of abandonment.

Consequently, I get short emolument
for the sea voyages I embark on.
I’d love to hug a whale, but I’m reluctant.

And it feels like a pretty harsh indictment,
this sense of inadequacy that sharks me
and makes me reluctant because I expect abandonment.

But I manage to keep my resentment
at bay. There’s so much in the world that sparks me;
and I don’t expect hugs—I’m reluctant

to risk love because of some dire precedent,
some dark event preceding memory.
Or can I be as trusting as an infant

in arms? Well, it might be wise to be a little hesitant.
If I were really still a baby, the world would love me,
and I could claim the hugs I’m reluctant
to ask for now—fearing abandonment.