It has been a long time, I think,
since the last time that I have laid eyes a man
who maybe wanted me.
I am not good at much.
There are things I know,
I know but canŐt put into words.
I would like to steal the doubt from
your throat, from your skull,
and rape that notion from the right angle of your jaw
that you are not good enough.
At least you are better than me.
See how the ravens stop to look at you?
See how the most confident of animals is stale white
next to the colors in your poetry?
When you start to speak,
I must quiet rapidly
to sip the nuances in the poetry that escapes your mouth.
If you would just touch me,
I do not think my ears would redden and bleed
from the strain of trying to catch each grain of sand
You loose from chipping at the concrete under my feet.
I do not think you are trying to make me stumble.
I sometimes forget when my stomach flips in my body,
where it laughs openly,
because you have said my name again.
I wish I believed in your God
so that I could scoop him up in my fingers
and hand him to you so that you could love him brighter,
so he could see you clearer, and you could love him better.
I think if I believed in God,
That he would love me too.
I think that maybe God does not want me either.
I wish that I was the fraying string
in the carpet in your bedroom,
so I could touch your feet as you passed,
To know what your skin felt like if it touched my skin.
If you would just touch me once
I think that I would not think about it so much.
© Nikki Butler