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.