in the middle of the night,
where the moon plays
a game of tag with the daylight
I lie in bed thinking of how much I hate how I appear to you.
sweet,
subtle,
submissive and slow
as the gentle kisses once delivered to you.
it pains me to think that
midnight blues
turn into shades of charcoal gray
when I think of your impression of me.
it is asymmetrical,
a puzzle piece that does not fit
to think that the words
so simple
so basic slip past your
peach colored lips,
"you cannot do ****."
misconstrued, I know
given in an improper way
but it wrestles within me
like demons
kept in their cages another day.
my capabilities are limited
to things humane
but am I that useless
to the point
that I am poison
to your veins?
do I make you angry?
do I make you weep?
are the demons in you
injecting their rage
into your skin with every word
that I am to say?
should I react,
or perhaps
I am to behave
like the little girl I once was...
scared,
cold
fear of what to say
disapproval so close to the corner
that any word slipped through my mouth
felt like an eternal mistake.