Writing

I thought I was an extrovert- 

I'm not. 

I can't talk to somebody unless they approach me first.

 So I don't correct when somebody says something that's wrong, 

I can only wish to check off something from my

endless lists that create the illusion of success.

What will it be today?

My week old math homework due in the next hour

or adding another item to my list?

I'm lost in little infinities, 

in stars that multiply the longer I look.  

I lose count of what's real and what's not, 

unsure when the endless stream of numbers concludes, 

Shadows dance on the names we wear, 

hiding our true feelings deep down in our pockets. 

Hearing each other's footsteps as you walk downstage, 

sounds strangely nice. 

“You’re a jerk”

“You’re the worst sister in the world”

“I hope I never see your face”

“Stop moming me”

Every time I reply with 

I love you too

I’m a jerk

I do your chores

How could I

when will it be my turn 

when will it be my turn to be loved 

when will it be my turn to be told i'm everything to someone 

when will it be my turn to feel pretty, otherworldly, stunning