On Inadequacy

After Rachel Marra’s 2nd 6 Word Memoir

People care too much. Too wrong, is it? How much do we know
about things that we call necessary? No one ever talks about
what’s beneath the entendres we’ve effortlessly woven
into our daily lives. Is it because we have become so skilled, so used
to disguising what we desire? When I call you
friend, or, lover, what do I really mean
to say? Perhaps the question lies
in how what I could say would always fail, would always fall flat
in trying to amount to the things I attempt
at explaining with the shuffling of my hands,
the way I turn my head when answering your question
about the weather, how my smile is crooked in an effort
to match the creases beside your eyes. Here are the tiny details
that so painfully call to be named, things that ache
to be given something that could rightfully be called adequate.
Yet you tell me it’s not enough; it’s too much. What would it mean
for things to be enough when the closest I have been taught
about caring is that something has to give in
to the weight of being unconditional, even if it risks
being called wrong.