Being me is not enough
for someone like you.
If all my affection piled up like
an avoided accordion file,
you’d say I was too much
with no folder big enough
to carry the burden of
such an expansive heart.
I called you once, in a huff
ready to say everything I had pent up–
that you were selfish and cruel,
how dare you try to shove my wild love aside
because it was more than what you wanted.
If my worst trait was being “too much,”
then maybe it was your worst trait, too
that you couldn’t carry it.
I’ve read universes of books to know
someone telling you they didn’t hurt you
has no business in telling you so.
I’d yell and yell and yell
and you’d say “are you done?”
like waiting for the beep
you’d leave your message
while I sat on the line, listening
to everything you weren’t willing to hear
but it’s different, coming from you
All you’d say was “my, me, I,”
and all I’d hear was the dial tone.