For not occupying
very much of it
I need space.
Taking more than
I can give.

I don’t have room in here
for all the people I want to be
let alone any spare rooms
for you to crawl into.

To you my skin would be
a snug sleeping bag
but to me it’s being loved
into a corner of myself.
The only way out is to zip
ourselves together and
for me to lose storage space.

There were little clues
like you asking me
if it was okay to get a haircut or
to help you pick out your jeans.
You wanted me to become you,
but I wouldn’t fit your mold
so you’re trying to fit mine.

But did you even consider me
before you moved in?
You may know that I cut
eleven inches of my hair
twenty-two months ago,
but do you care why?

Don’t exhaust me,
and try to find out what I hang
on the walls of myself, or what keeps
my grandfather’s clock ticking or
why there are no windows.

There aren’t many
I would invite in, probably
why my walls were built so small,
but to you they are an expansion project.
You see a house warming party
where I see invasion.
A For Sale sign has never
been more appalling.

Inhaling to expand myself
like a balloon, bigger and bigger
so people will see that just because
it may not look like it,
I take up a lot of space and
I deserve it because I am
denied of it.