more than my whole life in addressing the public

heart ripped out
i love you more
but when i see you will i know?
my love and poetry is not
worth more than my whole life
(i thought)
but nothing else can make me glow
like sexy lights
on handsome men
who look at me like i’m the world
an ego trip and is it right?
to hear i’m not like other girls
and sure it’s true i’m not
coincée
that doesn’t make of me a saint
it doesn’t make me a whole lot
beyond a girl who doesn’t pray
but do i write
and do i feel
am i entreated to complain
heartbroken after every slight
and will i let you take the blame?
for in this future all is real
words from pens like words on screens
and in dark hours
in the night
i feel the same things in my dreams
i wait for you to touch my heart
without a care for what it means.