This Thing

I don’t yet know what this is.  It’s sat on my heart a long time.  One day I thought it had left, but when I came back it was still there.  Late at night, or early in the morning, I sometimes feel it stir.  I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to call it but “it.”  It scares me sometimes, with its formlessness, its ubiquity, its general disregard for convention.  It sometimes seems to mock me and to enjoy itself at my expense.  Once I considered cutting it out but all my knives are dull, I’m no kind of a real man, I’m no good with tools, I’d blame it on my father but instead I think I’ll blame it all on it.