As if they know,
I keep waiting for some bleeding heart
To approach me, Arms flung open,
And croon, “Look alive little girl!
You’re too young to look so broken.”
I’ve got it planned out, see. I’ll smirk
And tell the cheery bulbous vats,
“I am way older than I am”
Then tell them how he taught me that.
It’s scary, how I keep waiting
For an excuse to be mad enough
To murder their joy with my words
To be so weak that I get tough.
But they never come.
Even the bleeding hearts don’t ask,
So I never (not even in anger) speak,
And lately I’ve begun to notice how
Their eyes avert away from me.