they tell me all good poetry begins
with something grotesque and huge
and Unknowable and all I know is it
doesn’t  
will never
begin
with your name
filling my head
swirling round  

between you
and the future
and the Lonely places
where souls go when
they can’t hear their thoughts anymore
and the idea that
maybe I can’t matter to anyone
because
I never Mattered to you

except as far as
two hours of
“don’t be scared”
and
“it’s okay”
and
“you’re beautiful”
can go and
I was confused
because

for a fleeting
second
I felt
honestly
truthfully
Beautiful

but if
that's what it
took
to feel
to be this
Beautiful
to you

then maybe I never wanted
want to be
beautiful
after all