I prepare myself for
the questions you'll ask.
You, glasses sliding off
your nose and me, a
painting stuck in time,
trying to move with the
artist's hand, aching to
be more than an afterthought,
more than a measure of blending in.
I know what I'll say,
and I hope you'll understand
how it hurts to take up
space with strangers,
to let even the sun provide
its shade,
to be heard,
to be seen,
to exist in the eyes of anyone new.
I hope you'll also see
how it makes my heart
race and my vision explode
in hues of serenity,
feeling safe in the possibility
of yearnings and silence.
I promise, I'm not starving
for attention.
I refuse to starve for anyone,
or to starve myself of a chance.
This fear has gnawed at my
bones for far too long;
