Self-Preservation

There is a path
worn in my carpet
that identifies
with the heavy penetration
of your voice in my head.
I never sit still.
Something needs to distract me
while I listen.
Usually you’re wanting a reply.

On my wrist
a brownish purple line darkens
each time I pause
and order my thoughts into scripts.
I swear, my meaning
is always stuck in my hand.
It never travels
to my brain through these veins.
Responses burn through my skin
and catch
on the silver sliver
of my bracelet.
I bear the branding
-Left Unsaid.

I am this cast
of hoarded thoughts,
but I mean for my bronze statued lips
to break
and spill something
-worthy.
I don’t expect someone’s hands to sift through
and declare gold.
Just notice
I tread the shore of contemplation
and at times
leave myself behind in the sand.

I know my hand continues to
finger my belt loop,
pull my hair,
and trace the table’s edge.
I know this,
and yet you stare.
You’re expecting something.
I’ve already spoken.
Why must I fulfill your expectations?