Hands steer on their own.
I don’t know, I don’t like having
high beams near trees.
sorry, you never asked.
Ears listen as you talk of
small and blank days
pushing swings with legs.
It could have been anyone.

you talk over the faint
melodies playing near me.
please, know that I’m trying
to turn the key. Ignition into G.
Em isn’t for everyone, but it’s what
uncolors their knuckles white- until
I ask them to
unfold one-by-one,
each finger’s frequency.

please, don’t accuse me
of severing the nerve endings.
Hands open on their own, after all.
I happen to be driving you back home-
you’re the one deciding
to kidnap yourself
with peppermint patties or
a denial dalliance.

Oh do tell, why am I the palm reader?
I silent. Eye reads the road.
I merely point my side
mirror towards you.

Emotions are hard
Hard to feel
Hard to share

It’s so much easier to offer a mirror
And let others
              See what they want to see
              Hear what they want to hear

Offering authenticity is complicated
                    Snarled
Full of light
              and dark
                       and confusion

Sometimes I don’t want to look
I don’t want to see
I don’t want to know

                   I don’t want to feel

But a shallow existence only works for so long
To grow, we must grow roots
To connect, we must reach out

Will you be worthy of my truth?
Will you face it with me?
Will you meet my vulnerability with your own?

I can only wish
And hope
And believe

That you will

hand me that one—
To hold in hand,
whisper my heart
within its pores.
To share my whims:
dresses I wore
sometime long past.

I dare not peek
To peel its peel,
study the lines
upon its raw.
To see the same:
summers now soil
this time in palm.