Fall 2001
You mistook my words for empty,
Mistook my spaces for words,
Mistook my heart for something
Impermeable to attack,
Something to smile at, perhaps.
...
And if I gave you something to wonder at --
A stain, like an inkblot
To ponder and decipher,
A Rorsach spill of portent and depths -
Then you assume too little and too much.
For where you mistook my emotions for symptoms
You erred, and left me victim
To an undeciphered spill.
....
That something like a heartspill
Could be so mistaken
Slaughtered something in me
And spilled me out again--
Before I was even self enough
To gather up the pieces I had dropped.
...
In internal offices there is no truth, no lie,
No lack and fruit,
No right and wrong.
There are the several shades of honesty
That define the workings of a girl.
But you seemed to feel no in-between
And confused the vague collection of lies
That define the truth in me
For nothing, for too much,
For something spilled you could touch and see.
