I was fine on my own,
an untouched Shakespeare in your corner.
You rifled through my pages
with a critical eye and careless fingers.
Tracing a constellation on your chest,
the search for a sign.
If it can’t be written in the stars,
at least wear it on your sleeve
like the inked numerals of your last love.
//
You live in your body like no one I know,
mark it up like your copy of Anna Karenina.
I live in my head like no one you know,
paying rent to overthinking.
//
I was fine on my own,
before Dvorak’s violins made you human.
I can’t put you on a pedestal like the other Davids
and admire from afar.
Critical eyes and careless fingers
weren’t made for marble.
Insecurity is my museum guard
and she’s paid in overthinking.