i’ve never held love.

by this i mean
my body is a switchblade.
a hornets nest.
the barrel of a warm gun.

i mean
my heart is a still born.

i mean
my teeth know too much
of bubblegum and cotton candy.
i mean
they think me sweet.

i mean
they think me bird feather.
i mean
they should think me
dead bird’s guts
splayed out like the crucifixion.
i mean
thats just who i am.

i mean
indifference is a reluctant symphony
pounding in my chest.
my heartbeat is a cacophony
of orchestra and
crashing symbols
and the conductor just doesn’t care.

i mean
there is no glimmer about me.
no glamour, no glitter.
i mean
i am just a collection of rust.

i mean
my hands are cracked, calloused.
the truth is a fickle thing
and i’ve never learned
how to get away with ******.
so i hide behind the other side of unrequited.
i reference it in poems,
pray no one will kick my feet
out from beneath me.

i mean
i’ve gotten good at this game.
this cat and mouse.
this ‘******* it why don’t you care?’
this 'you’re a real handful.’
this 'you’re pretty but you’re a *****.’

i mean
i’ve never held love
and by this i mean
i’ve always dropped it.