It has started
occurring to me
that I rely
too much on my
muses
to give me worth.

We are
too young
and I am
too small
to start giving
bits of myself away
to be stretched and
expanded upon
by others.

I cannot
be restricted
to dependency
or limit myself
to the dead-end
streets
paved by
people with names
I forgot.

I can walk
in whichever direction
I choose
and write words
that I will not
dedicate
to you.

You dropped me
like loose change into
a homeless man's
Burger King
cup.

I would have preferred
to be thrown,
to be
smashed
into a hundred
thousand shards of
broken cardiac muscle
- because at least
that would mean you had
made an
effort.

I wanted you to
push me away with
all of your strength,
leaving me to trip
and fall
right out of
love with you.

But you merely
nudged me aside
- too weak to break the
chewing-gum strands
which stretched
between my lips
and yours.

I was
stuck and
I was
craving,
maybe out of habit
rather than desire.

Too short to reach
the emergency exit
I was left
wishing you had made me
feel a little
taller.
There were twelve inches
worth of difference
between us,
everything that you
were and I
was not.

But I guess I got it
wrong.

You are not
six feet
two inches
of man
You are
six feet
two inches
of cowardice  
and your
extra large
t-shirts correspond
to your
extra large
apathy.

Because you didn't
care.

You didn't care about
my five foot
inferiority complex
or the five feet
of reassurance
it would have taken
to make me
feel worth
something.

But I will not be
confined
to the gap between
your height
and mine.

I have the strength
to pull myself away
and snap
those chewing-gum
strands
I don't need you
to make the effort
I'll make it
myself.

And if you still feel
inclined
to drop me
like loose change,
that's a **** lucky
homeless man.

It's the simplest words
That's the hardest to say
I try to portray it
But don't know how to say it  
These three words have me tongue tied
I hide behind slick words
Spitting out metaphors hoping you understand
They say timing is everything
I have a broken watch
Should I say it now
What if you don't feel the same
I'd surely be in pain
This back and forth affair
Is like a game
But there's not quit or restart
Once I say it, it's out
It's on the tip of my tongue
These words are like trying to chop down a tree
With an antique ax
I hack and hack almost there
Afraid which way it would land
I'll say it then have a quick escape plan
I hope it leaves you speechless
That way you don't engage
When I look at you
I have stage fright all over again
Quick look away
How am I suppose to tell you
I love you

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

You break my bones like tooth picks
And act like it was no small feat
Good job
You broke me
Well I broke me too
A long time ago
So
I win