Dear Reader
I cannot write anymore
With you over my shoulder
Reading everything
I know you only read the ones about you
But knowing you’ll read it
Has killed it
It’s too close to home now
It’s too revealing
I don’t want you to know
Everything that I am thinking
All of the time
So please stop
I’ve written so much lately
But can’t share it
Knowing you’ll be there
Even though
It’s basically only you and I reading this
And sometimes
It feels more like passing notes
In class
Hoping the teacher doesn't catch us
And read our notes out loud
To the world
Yes
It feels more like that
Then poetry
I want to share it
Because I like it
And I hardly ever got scared to write about What was on my mind
Until you moved in
Now i’m terrified
That I’ll say the wrong thing
Or get to carried away in some exaggeration That I call art
And you’ll get the wrong idea
Or the right one
And you’ll disappear
I cannot be free
With you there
Not fully
Maybe go back and read them someday
When we are far apart
And I don’t have to face the consequences
Of my own art
Tomorrow is your birthday
And I was going to post all the things I’ve been writing about you lately
As a ‘birthday gift’
But I just feel like it’s a horrible idea now
And a horrible gift
Not some neat expression of affection
I had hoped it would be
So I’ll keep them
(probably)
And if you want to read them in the future
When we are far apart
That’s cool with me doll
Just as long as I don’t have to face the consequences
Of my own art.
-C.H.