I misunderstand the way words slide by

and land in your gut

I forget how sensitive you are

under all that armor.

You might see me

as a lost artist

(why the fuck you taking so many naps today?)

or not one at all

(you are so fucked up)

or a woman with too many books

(another one, you’re really out of control)

instead of shoes of every color.

I may appear hard

cold

then the warmest softest glow

emanates like the moon

(you are amazing)

But what notion is this?

Why are you sleeping again?

Take some of my weakness

between your hands

and feel it

at five am

on a full moon

running from window to window

to stare at the strength

drive me to finish my other book.

So I read you, you talk to me,

you tell me you are a true artist

and I know how poets see past

the brick walls.

I repeat nothing

only to myself

over and over

like a prayer for the dead.

Pile up the outfits

give them away

delete the words

soothe the soul

with Depeche Mode playlists.

He always thinks I need to be saved

but perhaps

I am doing the saving.

So melodramatic

soap operas have nothing on us

and I have never met a therapist

I liked

so avoid the phone calls

file up my cabinets

with antique manuscripts

and a handful of pens

read me

read me not

save me

save me not

hate me

hate me not

love me

love me not.

You say too much or too little

I shut off my engine

migrating and hibernating

always doing something to stay in

the present.

Write me

write me not

I have nothing to do

with that fucked up myth

of the muse.

And I don’t believe everything I read

just the parts

that are for me.