when I think, I think I\'m 40
when I feel, I feel
I\'m certain my heart is a newborn\'s.
like I\'m too sensitive to be this old
like I\'m too young to hurt this much.
I\'m a poet and an exorcist,
a martyr and a terrorist
look away, don\'t say,
I already know you hate me for it.
I know you can\'t pack it
in your claustrophobic skull,
filled to its brim with
idealized excuses of abuse,
and sure, it\'s hard to be you,
but it\'s hard to be me too.
I love you to bits
and you\'ve opened my eyes,
showed me that I can be exposed
and overlooked at the same time.
every scar on my body,
a brush stroke on a canvas,
they\'re all testimony
as to how I\'ve handled this,
but you\'re so clear and pure
you cannot fathom how it is
to live for perfection
and still be so useless.
I\'m not strong enough
since I fail when I try
or maybe just more so
because every time I survive.
and if I leave a letter,
know that it\'s meant for you,
pink and red lipstick kisses,
\"what else was there to do?\"
if I could go back and start again,
I\'d end this madness
before it even began
so don\'t give me that look,
what else is there to say?
against the wall behind me,
blown away.