Solitary

The ones who love me number few
There’s less than six, but more than two
I’m hard to love, this much is true
And those who still endure me, well, I don’t know why they do

In moments rare, and moons of blue
The number grows with someone new
And less than six, it hints a view
Of greater than, but, nevermind, three others just withdrew

There’s some who stay, or just pursue
There’s some who care and muscle through
There’s some who try to find a clue
Of who I am, and why, and parse my words and shifting hue

But then, I love so very few
And say I don’t to ones I do
I hide the words in “her” and “you”
And say the words in secret so you never have to say you love me too

Advertisements

Blemishes

If my nose were missing
Would you treat me as if I
Were just a snake forever hissing
Just a pest that needs to die?

…Or would you so embrace
The imperfections of my face
And all the flaws I can’t erase
And see instead, the parts that cannot be replaced?

If my hands were mangled
Would you treat me as if I
Were just a monster to be strangled
And discarded like a fly?

…Or would you try to hold
Me knowing well how very cold
It is when empathy is sold
And by our blemishes, our value is controlled?