I have a choice, to be hushed,
close up at the sound of your heavy
footsteps on the old, spiral
staircase.
I can be unclear, but I feel
like I've promised someone before
I would not adhere to the bitterness
my name indicates.
Because there is no one to accuse,
miscommunication is an error, yes,
but sometimes it is one we cannot
circumvent.
We are not born mind-readers,
and it is not a trade that can be
learned. I must stop pretending
there are answers behind eyes,
undertones in the way I walk
and knowledge of who will cast
the first stone by the way I train
my mouth.
I will let God intervene, and before
numbers are mounted on the board,
before verses are circled and scratched
out in pencil, I will pray for guidance,
that my words love and spill softly
the thoughts I am too humiliated by...
if that's what they were meant to do.
-
Written 7/26/14 @ 12:33 PM
This may sound silly, but I purposely didn't want this poem to have a title. I always title my poems and thought for this piece especially, I didn't want anything definitive, if that makes sense. I had this idea before I finished writing the poem, so I don't know if it's the right choice to make, but I will leave it like this for now.
