7.08.2015

Between a state
of disappointment,
convinced
I've done it all
wrong
By the images of others' lives:
travels and brunches
in parenthesis I notice I don't have thick skin after all.

On a note I've scribbled, "you are capeable," I put on my cape. Is there any one out there, trying to able alone, too? You plucked yourself over & over from your family tree: did you break the branches blindly and heartily push them down your throat? Have you had to say, "you don't want me," without tears? Break hearts to protect yours, and anyway; rejection letters  don't feel as personal anymore. "You're able! You're able!" I know they visit when you're gone. They, too, get ownership-- for it's in their photo of that spot you used to love to get tea nearby. But you can't get mad, you're still  discovering, too.

You live in an orange house,
in burning walls, you've lost hope and had to pick each piece up yourself,
You haven't crushed a glass here yet.
In this quiet room, you've called out for love.
And you're loved, despite your kitchen and poor means.