that I haven't already said
and the truth is that no body cares
least of all me
about the colour of my eyes
or why I am sad.
Nobody cares, least of all me,
How I don't believe I can have what I want;
and maybe I don't even deserve it.
Why does it matter why?
I grow impatient with my own questions
and tears of self indulgent pity
Because I am tired,
and I would rather speak with the beat of my heart
than whisper with my fingers
tracing my minds circles through space.