I would scream

I would cry


I would pound the ground
In my fear

In my frustration


In my sadness
But I don’t . . .

I wouldn’t write

I wouldn’t draw


I wouldn’t think
Of you

Of what I see


Of details
But I do . . .

I would come

I would be strong


I would be alluring
In my walk

In my voice


In my looks
But I don’t . . .

I wouldn’t speak

I wouldn’t see what I could


I wouldn’t hear anything
Of you

Of anything


Of the words
But I do . . .

Instead I scream
In my chest

Instead I cry

Alone


Instead I


clench my fists

Instead I write
All the time

Instead I draw

Everything


Instead I think


About every detail

Instead I come
Walking to see you

Instead I am strong

Physically, my voice serious


Instead I am alluring


without meaning to be

Instead I speak
To you as a friend

Instead I see

What I can to know you


Instead I hear


All you have to say

To do other wise

Betrays


You
Who I am . . .