Am I Being Sensitive, Or...?

you told me the other day that

wings are made to fly, not to float

aimlessly, waiting for a day where

i can wake up in a dream, not reality.

are you stupid, you asked.

i didn’t answer.

staring at the floor, there i was.

that’s how you see me most days

incapable of any thought, indistinguishable from

the childish handwriting seeping into brain,

inconsistent with what i say.

am i wrong, you asked. like a barrier in-between

my vocal cords and the air.

i said nothing.

you weren’t wrong, i thought. you are never

wrong.

i wonder when it’s okay to be weak.

my friends

tell me that there’s no such thing as weak, only

brilliantly emotional. i wish i could believe them.

each night i overthink in bed, replaying the film,

and i notice the parade, the hollers of joy, around

everybody. they seem happy as they take easy breaths

of oxygen and stumble purposefully on their feet.

smiles tint their faces, except mine.

ha, ha, ha, i want to say. ha, ha, ha.

are you there, listening? have you ever been willing

to listen? maybe i haven’t given you the chance

since i’ve never said anything. you only appreciate me

when i don’t say anything. and, when i do, your eyes burn blue

and your tongue suffocates the air, and i stand

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