Creature Of Habit

I brush my fingers over the suede couch,

Making shapes and wiping the slate clean,

With a swipe of an open palm.

And your pen clicks as you-

Observe and write and observe again.

And the silence filters through,

Because my feet tap to a forgotten rhythm.

And you sip on your tea as you watch-

Me struggle to find the appropriate words,

About how it once kept me up at nights

How I couldn’t meet anyone new without panicking,

How my thighs will always be proof,

How cathartic a release crying in the shower is,

How no one knew, how no one knows.

But I’m better now, I promise,

This is really only a formality,

This is only so I can be at peace

No, no, I don’t need this

It’s just a blank checkbox

And when I’m home, hidden away,

I’ll tick it, and forget, and go about my day.

After a brief moment I pull myself together,

Uncross my ankles, bring my hands to my lap,

And wait.

So you ask me to open up

And talk about my feelings

But how can I discuss this

Without giving away my best kept secrets,

Because being in a room with you-

Alone; for a painfully slow hour

Does absolutely nothing for me,

Because I’m not in the habit

Of explaining my poetry.

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