This is not my face;
This crooked smile
And these come hither eyes,
Drawing you in,
Disarming you.
These are not my hands;
That trace the contours of your spine
And memorize the folds of your pages
Like a favorite book,
Lingering on every tear and crease.
This is not my breath;
Hovering above your lips,
Promising life while
My blood pools,
Stagnant and blue
Frozen with fear.
These are not my word;
That drip from my fickle heart like a leaky faucet
Betraying my weakness and my vice
Delaying each beat.
One day, I hope you will see my face,
My true face,
The one I wear to bed at night,
The one that shifts beneath the surface of this mask.
One day, I hope you will feel the sincerity of my touch,
The hands I use to build, to create and to love.
One day, I hope you feel the whisper of my breath,
Filled with passion and courage.
And one day, I hope you read my words,
In the moments between every pause and space,
They are your words too,
Placed there just for you.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryThis year has been a year of dysfunctional relationships, not only with other people, but also myself. This has been a year of inspiration, disappointment , and ultimately, rediscovery. These poems reflect my need to delve into, understand, and ex...
