You do not love me.
You love the way my eyes look under these fluorescent lights.
You’re in love with the colors with which I paint my words.
The arteries of your heart are directly linked to your eyes
Like the jumper cables for cars with dead batteries.
You think I can restart some missing part of you;
Some spot that forgot to wake up one morning with the rest of you.
You’re not in love with how my soul’s turned dark-
Its run its hands over the walls, flipping the light switch off.
You’re not in love with my silence,
When my thoughts are doing all the talking,
And I turn into nothing but a sock puppet to the hands of my demons.
Normal is a thing I’ve never known,
And I can’t keep apologizing for my nature;
Not even ballerinas can tip toe over all of these eggshells.
You’ll miss me when I’m gone;
The ghost of a hand you’re no longer holding.
My name isn’t written in the leaves
At the bottom of your tea.
There’s another face you need to meet;
Someone whose irises have been waiting long to see yours.
That’s how this story’s been written,
and while I’m flattered by your confusion,
we can only take the plots we’re given,
And I need to remind myself
when the longing-eyed lovers leave,
that one of these days it’ll happen.
A lot of people confuse love for being blind,
but that’s only because love touches your skin
like it’s reading braille.

Schuyler Peck