I am nervous.
I feel the moths in my belly,
The kind that make you sick.
The kind where you are worrying
But have not been given the reason to.
I am worried that I love them.
I am nervous that they will break me.
I am scared that they will wake up,
And see me as unworthy.
Unworthy of being called beautiful.
Unworthy of their presence.
Unworthy of their love,
And maybe I am.
They are so good to me,
More than I could have asked for.
More than I could have dreamed of.
I wished for someone to love me for me.
To see me as something special,
But I never have been.
I am not the golden child.
I am not remarkably intelligent.
I do not have a special talent.
I am remarkably unremarkable,
And maybe I never have been worthy.

I look across the street
at the woman walking by.

Her slender form
in bright reds dressed,
a beating crimson heart
against the exsanguinated grey
of dry asphalt.

I look across the street
and dare not move.

Because my mother
raised me undeserving
of the time of someone
whom bleeds life into
an exsanguinated day.

I look across the street
and nothing more.

As my father taught me
to live unremarkable
and let all songbids
fade away from memory...

I could not walk with her.

I lay here
on ashen asphalt
and wait for the red
to bleed out of sight.

I look across the street
and exsanguinate
any hope of lasting love.

swaying in the breeze
standing bright against the leaves
lovely as can be