Tonight

It seemed lately that my heart was beating
ever so quietly under its binding
for a nameless you.
For a face that was centred in obscurity
and could have been anybody
with a YY and a friendly smile.
But a distant planet that's anchored so far away
promising what it can never fulfil
seems possible somehow.
I've heard the moon controls the sea,
and perhaps like the water my disease
fluctuates now beyond my control.
Or am I making excuses?
My room is blank and clear, safe
to walk across the floor barefoot
and not gather my life upon them.
The ones I love, love me back most days
and I run out of fingers to count them with--
this must make me smile when all else fails.
But red wine has spilled upon the coverlet
like the stain of her reckless night
when I proved my love, I thought.
She found me feelings trivial, not worth explaining
not worth a phone call, she mocked
that which is held in my secret heart.
I cannot find a rhythm, and pens falter
in my hands. Only paintbrushes remain
and the smell of turpentine.
You asked me for reasons, I'll give you three:

I am human, I am female, I am me.