I always wear my heart on my sleeve but
it’s getting too hot in here, and then what?
Your eyes are open windows and I like that
even though I cannot find a door to take me
inside. I don’t know where your heart is; you
always walk with your arms behind your back.
It’s like you are the rain and my smile is a flower.
You make me feel like I could grow stronger.
But not now.
Now it’s like you are a typewriter,
and I am just the new secretary.
I am ripped pages of mistakes,
messy blots of ink you analyse,
making me forget that I am the one
who studied psychology.
I hate the way I want you.
It weakens me.
And I am not weak.
I feel the roots tickling my toes though.
They will sprout out of me and into
the stubborn soil of my pride.
A seed is weak; a tree is not.
I asked you to push, push, push
so I could see when I would trip
but now I know that if you do,
I will do the opposite of falling.