I can’t say what I mean

Photo by author (meaningless scribbles)

I want to tell you so little,

And like love, you understand the shit I don’t.

That intense gibberish lives and breathes

in my heart and sometimes my mouth.

It doesn’t matter though.

You won’t feel the way I want you to.

You won’t look at me the way I wish.

For that to happen, I have to not want it,

Not want you, the way I wish I didn’t.

You want me without the feelings.

You want me like you want to make your bed.

A chore that feels sufficient but not joyous,

nor worthy of acknowledgement. Just a task,

fulfilling social status points

for your good person catalog.

I don’t want to be this to you.

I don’t want to say this to you.

It won’t come out right.