I Am.

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I am a product of my own thoughts’ divorce, fragmented and disparate
a cacophony of vowels and punctuation
I am a cloyingly decadent dessert, rotting your teeth disguised by the sweet
backhanded compliments and satisfaction
I’m an overtly obese obligation, long forgotten but forever casting shadows in your deep subconscious
I’m the reason you awake with a start, sweat beading your crumpled brow, as you remember your shortcomings and failings
I’m the leather bound books you’ll never read, the words you’ll never speak
insecurities you fear to give voice to
I am your 3 voicemails, nagging and unanswered, an icon in the back of your mind
I’m a piteous pitfall, tendrils of anguish constricting my happiness, though you don’t see that you planted the seeds
I am hesitantly hopeful; abashedly unbiased; atrociously accepting
I am the coppery complexion you see in the mirror
the blood singing in your prominent veins.





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