i am not your blank page to fill

so many beautiful mouths
speaking so many beautiful words.
your tongues ripe with promises,
your breath heavy with understanding.
my eyes lock and catch the
light that seems so real, like
diamonds in water.
my furrowed brow, rising
with question, with skepticism,
finally softens as something
so simple as a kiss, opens my
heartwalls and lets
you all step inside.

maybe it has something to do
with the night, the absence of
sunshine or reality, that makes
it so easy for you to design
words that penetrate all of my
armor. or realize that perhaps
i never had a fortress to begin with.

maybe it has something to do
with the alcohol in dimly lit
bars, or the wine in my glass
on my coffee table that liquefies
strings of sentences into promises
that i never asked any of you to
make, but that you made anyway.

maybe it has something to do
with the idea that you are constructing
yourself while looking me in the eye,
wanting to believe something
about yourself–but you are
so far from that man, when the sun
finally makes an appearance,
you remember how little you have.
how little you are.

it is irrelevant.

perhaps if you watched those words
come out of your mouth–if you told
those lips and hands to behave, rather
than touch me so delicately i freeze,
i might be able to understand.

but you are all the same, so it seems.
with your sly smiles and your pretty
paragraphs. with your hot fingertips
and your tongues that dance whenever
you see my face. how do i stumble and
fall into your arms? how do i end up
spending sleepless nights wondering
why you chose to say anything at all?

would it be so difficult to tie your
tongue, bind it like telephone wires,
waiting to deliver sounds to a
listening ear? your words are unceasingly
vulgar in their beauty. your fire hands
have scarred, and i am left continually
smoking.

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Categories: Poetry

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