Beautiful Listener,
I am shy. I have avoided addressing my feelings for far too long.
Just thinking about reaching out to you personally, gets me gripping the armrests on my chair, tight. My fingertips turn white dispersing blood flow. I am relieved to have an outlet like poetry to skim the surface daily. I’d appreciate being told to take my time. I’d love to feel more comfortable telling inanimate objects my heart beats for them. But, that’s off.
Me, fleeing doesn’t happen. My heart just shifts its weight and tells me to anticipate heartburn. I’ll never run away. I might scootch across the floor. I might tell her “I’m sore.”
I will do all the chores, wash baskets, fold laundry, stick magnets, I’m going grocery shopping four days a week. I seek the highest state of being on aisle 3’s shelf. I will probably need more assistance breaching the line on this check. Murda the opposing b!tches who said they want to work for wrists pictured in this kids retinas.
I’ll never refrain from admitting the chain effects playing a crucial role in how things ended. Push me faster. I’ll roll down a hill to kill the time in between us never actually finding ways to portray our heart’s divine-ness. Then, I’ll pump my biceps and wonder, “hmm, she’s not here yet!?”
On Poetizer
