He says to me
"You are perfect"
And I don't have the heart to tell him
That - no,
I am not perfect
I am the remote with
One dead battery
That you slam against the coffee table
A little too hard
I am your coffee cup in the morning
Warm to the touch - almost too warm
With a crack starting to
Splice the side of your favorite mug
I am your left shoe
That you tossed back in to the closet
When you couldn't find the right one
And I am still your left shoe
When you pick me up
Thinking I am the right one
I am a fruit fly
Buzzing around your head
You swat away at me
But like paranoia I am always in your ear
I am that creaky floorboard on the stairs
That you always try to avoid
But you step on it anyway
And always at 3 am
I am the leaky faucet
That continues to drip
Long after you've fixed me
Because the real problems always lie way deeper
I am a pile of laundry
That you forgot lay on your bed
When all you want
Is to desperately go to sleep
I am a vending machine
You pay in compliments
To buy love and confidence
But I reject them - awkwardly
Spitting them back out like
Wrinkly dollars
You see, I am many things
But perfect,
I am not
But he never needs to know
YOU ARE READING
Yellow Paint : A Collection of Midnight Thoughts
PoetryAn ever-growing manifesto of the musings that keep me up at night Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought making his insides bright would make him happy. Writing is my yellow paint.
