I wish to write my life in essay form,
answers to all your questions carefully crafted,
for when I am asked off the cuff for favorite films,
I fumble and stutter like I’ve been caught, asked,
why did I lie about getting my homework done in fifth grade,
when instead I spent the afternoon reading Judy Blume?
I say nothing that I meant to;
I land on comedy of all things,
I forget about the dramatic scenes that bring tears to my eyes,
the running reel
of what I really meant to mention.
And don’t ask me why it made more sense to purchase drive-thru
Starbucks this morning,
rather than wait five minutes for the french press at home.
I’m a walking contradiction, I know,
So let me write it all down for you.
Rather than a hand across my stupid mouth,
my hand that flies across the page tells its truth,
the heart of me,
the heart I wish I wore on my sleeve, but that never really seems to say,
say what I mean.
And rather than you keeping record of all my wrongs,
I’d like to write that story myself,
the way I do so now.
All is poetry,
All is true,
But I’d rather you not tell it.
