excuses
stories as armor
always feeling like I have to say
I am this way because.
the squiggly line between existing and explaining.
I am expected to write a story for every skin cell,
ten novels for every lie,
but I keep throwing the words into the water
dragging myself back into the deep til my lungs are fuller than the sky.
the only way I can understand it is smudging,
bring to the bank the to-do list of self
written in nearly perfect cursive,
maybe we’re owed something back for a survival so pristine
it’s nearly another holy book.
I am expected to
Have Ideas.
not soak up theirs like a sponge,
repeat them intertwined,
a loosening,
a thieving,
a woman on her way to becoming a crowd.
I can only be human in pieces,
scars carved out of memories
and not the skin that holds them
everything pretty but not how I want it
my gluttony is wanting your permission to be seen
or all your attention at once.
look, catch me.
I am flying through the air and you will not see it coming.
expecting some sort of monster
when I am only droplets of your lemonade,
yesterday’s exhaled breath.
I always wonder what they want from me.
a legacy, an embrace, a cliffhang, my body.
the work we inherit to cover up the being.
the days we spend forgetting the life.
