someone told me i was selfish.

and it hurt because i spend most of my life

just giving away pieces of myself

hoping they’ll replace

those chewed up by the family pet.

i spend my thoughts at the local grocery store

purchasing some other person’s inspirations

so they can come home and feel like they have enough

food on the table to feed their dreams.

i spend my love as loose change

to put into each and every blinking-red light

expired parking meter i come across

(there’s nothing worse than too late)

i deposit my smiles into a savings account in

the bank on the street corner

and leave the password scribbled on sticky-notes

laying across this city in every place i visit.

(sometimes under cups of suspended coffee

or inside the pages

of a book you’ll never forgive.)

((there’s one under the place mat of your front door.))

at times i have

taken every breath for another body

and would’ve carved out my lungs at any

indication they might need more oxygen

to get through these sobs

this night in this life.

i’m a film of paint over it all and maybe

i’ve tried to lay myself out too incredibly thin

because i can’t conceal the crayon scribbles

topping the old colour.

they peak out under me like the veins

and the heart and the gush from a gecko’s belly.

(i don’t ever feel thin enough, the irony)

but i should’ve remembered that

i learned a long time ago that i

can’t put everybody’s life before my own

and pretend this counts as love.