You don’t get the good stuff.
That stuff is held back for those
Who have a place at my table.
The best of me, is not for you;
I still bleed from this learning.
I only keep those who show up, you see.
Emerson said, “What you do speak so loudly
I cannot hear what you say.”
Your inaction is deafening,
Your formality, infuriating.
I didn’t come for your dress rehearsal.
Your soul shone through for a breath,
I mistake this unfolding to be genuine.
This manipulation begins my undoing.
You are the reason I keep my heart under floorboards,
Safe, encased in a cocoon woven from all
Of my past mistakes from people like you.
It can still be heard through the wood,
Thumps whispering through pulp and grains.
It will not beat for you, it remembers,
And regrets how easy you were to need.