Apology
All hail my sacred ideology.
I bow my head in reverence when I
Spill my emotions on your kitchen floor
Sorry, sorry!
I'll try my best not to do it again;
Please, pry carefully
I can take it if you’re careful
But pray for me when I tumble.
I’ve never quite liked
Having to discuss myself
Or crying
And I strive not to
But sometimes,
She escapes my lips
The jail cell in my head where I detain the things I really need to say
Has a loose lock
Thank God; Apology
Apology is sweet Ambrosia
With one almighty swipe, an Apology
Eradicates the words you said before
Eradicates the feelings you should've kept to yourself
It is courtesy
It is expected
All hail Apology, forsaken Smiter of all things relieving.

My feelings are presents; much like soft whispers
They’re hard to mumble out
And when I give them to you
I need you to
Hear them the first time

If you know me,
You know that I am not pretty.
I am like an early Wednesday morning
In January
I am like the frost that clings to its windshield lover, unrelentingly--
When you’re already running ten minutes late.
I am not pretty.
This isn’t hidden information.

Today, a victory:
I have won the battle
against my denim jeans
oh, the victorious morning before work
happy day.
compressed, I waddle about the corridors
Yet my thighs still touch one another, the inseparable best friends, bonded by a mutual love of cupcakes.
My thighs demand silence, and your eyes
They are strong. But they are
Scattered with indents and other un-lovely things
My un-lovely body
Demands your eyes
Because I am not pretty, but
I am attention
I am compelling, for some reason
Inescapable, perhaps
It is because I am not cookie-cutter
Although I wish I was.

I walk among you; different
I am not pretty, but I am different
And different could be their pretty if you looked at it in the dark
Or on a Wednesday morning in January
Or through frost-coated glass
Couldn't it?

i liken myself to a clamshell:
i cannot be opened when you inevitably find me buried in the sand
you may pry
i may even want you to; i do--
i would love nothing more than for you to
scoop me outside of myself so i can see daylight
because i want to show you everything
i am small and calloused, battered about by the waves that brought me to your doorstep
but i hope you'll stay, perhaps i seem promising
and i'd be happy as a clam if you did

i am like fall
leaves fall away slowly at first, and then suddenly all at once
and they don't come back.
a tree is solitude
but with you, i am evergreen

i am a sewing project:
fine little scars make lace of my arms.
patches of different patterns
occupy my mind; they're awfully frayed
but unique. they're mine.
i'm pushed and pulled through
some speedy machine
work, sleep, repeat
every puncture of the needle at
the speed of light
i am a constant, ever-changing
patchwork, some
handiwork of a tired old woman somewhere
awfully far away. i think of her when I can’t fall asleep.
I wonder if she thinks of me too.
i am a tapestry.
i cover walls, i do not build them, yet oftentimes i so wish i could.
or had the strength to, at least--but i am mere fabric
i am a sewing project.