It’s not you –

My expectations are sky escaping. They
stand upon their pointe, tip-toed scraping

Disappointment. The lions and tigers I
bear in my chest as I realize I’m not high.
Feeling every claw clinch upon my breath,

I fear the possibility that it’s my breast…
…not the hearts in eyes that paint the
truest image of who I am inside my chest
that holds your interest.

IF I could keep my head when all about
me tornadoed believing the world is just
fine without me,
It would be…

…But it isn’t.

-it’s not me,

Either.