It’s getting over the fact
that I wasn’t good enough
That it has nothing to do with me,
but rather the hands
my eager heart
It has a habit of jumping out of my chest
when words tangle in my throat—-
This is why I run.
I am traffic jam in and of myself
and making eye contact with you
would lead to a ten car-pile up…
if my pulse could glow,
consider my veins overlapping sirens.
I’m all out for you.
Every exposed innard,
love laid out on pavement—-
I wasn’t good enough for them,
Their hands were smeared with the blood
of the past casualties they didn’t know
how to handle,
and I was left spilling over myself.
Falling in love with the medic on site,
locking eyes as he picks up my pieces,
places them in a box,
before jumping on an ambulance.
I am all burnt over scars
and possible carcass.
But I am not soulless.
When my body is left
to be peeled up off the asphalt,
I realize I was good enough,
but they were all