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