i am not mediocre.
i might smile at innaproprate times,
or laugh out of context around
the board table; but the way
light hits my eyes ins’t standard.
i fight for lucence in other people.
you choose to place your heart
on a chopping block and ache
to see it writhe in some kind
of desperate attempt at love.
i choose to close mine in,
zip it up, sew it to my ribs–
until someone has catered long
enough to its sound to understand
how to cut through the barricade,
and gently undo the stitching.
i don’t need anyone to clamp it
off, take it over, or make it beat.
i don’t need someone else to fill
it up because it is already full.
and yours will annihilate itself
over and over and over again
because all you want is an angel
to turn it to gold. all you want
is a heart full of empty passion.
and you’re right, that isn’t me.
because absolute love never takes
over internal organs.
i am too careful with precious