stop sending your son to do Atlas' job.

or else.

i'm scared i'll never be better than these love poems

and so here you stand again,
extending your half-empty
glass and expecting me to fill you up
with the half that i have left of me.
void of complaints,
pressed into the wrong space
(though the right piece)
you knew me once to be the girl that would carry you
on her shoulders in earnest,
a believer in geocentricity
while you investigated other cores.

i guess i'm still a little **** & misshapen.
i guess i signed up to always be partially theirs, somewhere-
a beacon to those behind me,
advantageous and drawn to the vulnerability i bleed,
the healing i do.
"can we start again?
i just appreciate the energy that you
bring back."

my body is a road map
littered with the fingerprints of men who
find somewhere/(one) else to make home

(beep)
do you feel alone on nights like tonight, too?

i'm just angry that you
made me bitter about love