the hands that feed you

Don’t mistake kindness
for a welcome mat.
Don’t say you’re sorry after
you’ve wiped your feet,
run my heart through your
Don’t presume to know me;
you don’t even know yourself.
And don’t talk about grace
like she’s your best friend;
you don’t even know where
she lives.

The garden of deception
you tend to bears
rotting fruit, scarecrow’s
overstuffed with straws of silent
self-sabotage—only one
he’s scaring is himself.
And that existential necklace
you wear strangles:
answers to the questions
can be found within
the questions can be
in other words, your nose
is fine just where it is.

Don’t mistake my love
for a lab rat—
no way out of that maze &
there’s never enough cheese.
Don’t hold yourself up
for inspection if you’re afraid
of microscopes because
that speck there, no
there—you see it?
You see it?
Yeah, me neither.

And don’t take this the wrong way
but you are pragmatically emotional
or, in other words — and I’ve
given this a lot of thought
(too much)—
pragmatic to the extent
of lacking emotion,
blunt to the point
of being cruel,
hell-bent on rejecting the hands
that feed you.
And don’t take this
the wrong way because
I’ve given it a lot of thought,
really, I have: it’s no wonder
you’re still