The best of me, is not for you.

You don’t get the good stuff.

That stuff is reserved for those who have a place at my table.

The best of me — is not for you;

I still bleed from this learning.

I only keep those who show up, you see.

Emerson said, “What you do speaks so loudly I can’t hear what you say”.

Your inaction is deafening,

your formality infuriating.

I didn’t come for your dress rehearsal.

You reveal your soul for a breath,

I mistake that unfolding to be genuine.

This manipulative dance begins my undoing.

You are the reason I keep my heart under floor boards,

safe, encased in a cocoon woven from all of my past mistakes with you people like you.

It can still be heard through the wood,

thumps whispering through grains

but it won’t beat for you, it remembers,

and regrets how easy you were to need.

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