Unanswered are the calls, that ring at a time I was used to,
but are faded into a distant memory; almost like deja vu.
Like, what do I say if I pick up? There’s only one greeting my lips are accustomed to at such a time, and it wouldn’t be for you.
Unanswered are the messages that blink on my phone,
the ones from numbers I can’t remember,
the ones left in my inbox.
Unanswered are the questions that are delivered,
to which I don’t know how to craft answers.
One of you only wants me to be pretty,
could care less for all the things I have to say.
But I’m not pretty. I don’t want to be.
One of you is infatuated with this abstract image:
a fearless, adventurous girl; a night body; a ride-or-die.
But I’m a ride-and-why-should-I-die.
One of you, finds unfamiliarity in my giggles and bubble moments,
because you believe my nature is purely only serious intellect.
And one of you, just wants me there. Literally, nothing but a space filler
while you work away as if I had no ambitions of my own.
Answering is almost foreign to me. And I just don’t know how. I try.
Try and show you a self, but I don’t know what to show.
It’s just easier for me to trudge along,
run and walk at my own pace,
and carve all the paths I want to take.
Was I born to not answer?
Give time they said.
Perhaps it’s not time I won’t give,
I probably missed the part about opening the door.