It’s tiring writing for other people all the time
And not doing it for you you you
My thumb beating out the words on a wood table.
It’s hard on the eyes,
Watching all the ways people walk differently,
Knowing about the days people have had before they open their lips or show their teeth-
Mouths say more about people than what runs out of them.
It’s painful, letting the pieces of you be left in
Different places with different people, splicing, but
It must be done;
I’ve a calling to be seen to.
I grow weary of the way I see through what you’re saying to me and
The fact that you still don’t seem to realize it,
I can see my breath growing white and my eyes are blooming with grey,
Monotonous, boring, tell me anyways.
I’ll say this once and I’ll never say it again, long as I live,
I swear it:
I knew who you were before you told me a thing,
I’ve known you since you entered my sight line and heaved your body toward my horizon.
There won’t be any blindsiding,
Please stop trying to paint your words with things you don’t mean.