you get mad at me often
because we don't speak the same language
or because as much as i listen to your
boy-hood fantasies
i still only here the voice of someone
scared
to just be a woman.
It's difficult for someone
who just wants to be a man.

you call me a hypocrite.
walking around with a mirror for a face
while I scream at everything else for having
the same face
or closed-mouth laugh
or the tongue in between her teeth.

you get mad at me because
i tell you to be direct
but i can't never seem to tell you what i mean
by "I love you"
or "I don't know".

As I breathe
the music on my shoulder is  kicking it's legs
and sighing
with bells on its shoes
and freezing cold finger tips

As I listen
the breathe in my head is speaking
in the lowest tones
of the brightest colors
and I keep reminding myself for some reason
that they're just words.

aren't they?

I don't know.

I love you.