I spend my whole life                                                                                             

     trying to read you

while simultaneously trying to make my face

     a page in a book

     you wrote

so you would come home every day just to dwell on the words on my mouth,

     spend so much time with them

     that one day you might run your fingers

     through the pages in my hair,

     cherish the personification of desire

     that you made

and be pleased.

—

Today you said you can’t read me

and I realized

that if you tried, you wouldn’t even find me in the footnotes

because its easy to get carried away with a red pen

and all the time in the world

So 

I’m writing you this

and though the sleeve wearing my heart is paper-thin

I swore to myself I’d publish…

Today you said you can't read me

but I say

you can.

Please, tell me I'm not your average library novel

free me

word for word

weaken the stiffness of my spine

hold me 

run your fingers down my back

and make me your well-read favorite.

things start splitting at the seams now                                                              

things start splitting at the seams now

anything to make you smile

in my mind

you are

the ever-present love that remains like a ghost

I hold this book, looking, questioning, wondering

I believe

functional things,

but slow guitar sounds

remind me

I’m tumbling down

tumbling down

poise

only to hold me together

only to act like I can.

control, ooh, the thing I know best.

do I really know me at all?

what suppression leaves me with

empty, quietness in tones I’ve never heard

not loud enough to wear hand-knitted perfection.

it’s a good thing your will exists...

stubbornness cowers now

thank god, it does.