There will be so many
I disappoint that I,
content,
do not heed.
My mother —
Who cooks when I am not hungry.
My sister —
who frowns at my blemishes
and plucks my unibrow ferociously.
The poet slash
musician slash
magician
who calls me to ****
when his calendar is empty.
I bailed on them,
like the similes that no longer serve me,
like the poems I tossed as therapy —
You know —
The ones spun from circular conversations —
gut feelings supplemented by text messages
when you're half paying attention,
half wishing the space between buzzes would lengthen.

There will be so many irked that I,
content,
remain unresponsive.
They wish my mouth wide open,
drooling,
trained to heed queries,
They pull my time like teeth,
Blinded by the sting,
I can’t see the point
of fearing their disappointment.
Because there will be so many I disappoint,
but I, at peace.