Dull Edges

You’re asking me what I want for dinner
and I’m telling you how I never feel like I’m good enough

You’re handing me a paper from the doctor
and I’m handing you the poems I wrote when I was twenty-one and believed I was unworthy of love

You’re asking me to pass the hot sauce
and I’m almost laughing at the white knuckle grip I have on the bottle so it doesn’t drop from my clumsy hands, and you notice yet, another flaw

You’re trying to do the mundane things and I’m pouring out dull edges of truth that cut like thorns in my side

I can’t keep pretending like everything’s okay

The things I’ve done are mostly sad
The movies that play behind closed eyes often sting
This life has made its home in my bones
and I can hear the floors creak every time I rise