Shy
I’m shy,
quiet
with a lot to say.
But you won’t notice my modesty
when I plaster confidence and smiles on my face
and when I shower you with facts and feelings
borrowed from the owners of the clothes in the Salvation Army bins.
I want to say it all,
I want to be true
to what I feel
and believe
but your body beside me makes me nervous.
Look at me,
you see my skin,
the bags and crevices,
a girl
brown hair and screensaver eyes
some freckles
and always a little extra on my thighs/butt/stomach.
That’s all you see.
You won’t notice feeble attempts to draw attention to the little things.
I’m afraid you’re never gonna know the stories behind the scar on my hip
or the shape of my little finger.
I want to tell you about the time I fell and scraped my knees
ruined my Ninja Turtle stockings.
I learned how it felt to fear someone hating me
and how losing something you love hurts a little too much.
Did you know I want to be romantic?
I want to tell you about the time I went on a trip,
taught a Spanish class (and no, I don’t know Spanish).
I was enlightened.
I learned the art of humility and ability to make rice into twenty different meals.
I could talk for hours about my dreams and what I think of everyone I know,
of psychology and school and Waterloo.
My family is as looney as the next.
I’ve got a nickname and know more bad jokes than anyone I know.
And I’m sure I could give you some tips on making cookies.
I want to tell you these things,
but I won’t.
I’m shy.
quiet
with a lot to say.
But you won’t notice my modesty
when I plaster confidence and smiles on my face
and when I shower you with facts and feelings
borrowed from the owners of the clothes in the Salvation Army bins.
I want to say it all,
I want to be true
to what I feel
and believe
but your body beside me makes me nervous.
Look at me,
you see my skin,
the bags and crevices,
a girl
brown hair and screensaver eyes
some freckles
and always a little extra on my thighs/butt/stomach.
That’s all you see.
You won’t notice feeble attempts to draw attention to the little things.
I’m afraid you’re never gonna know the stories behind the scar on my hip
or the shape of my little finger.
I want to tell you about the time I fell and scraped my knees
ruined my Ninja Turtle stockings.
I learned how it felt to fear someone hating me
and how losing something you love hurts a little too much.
Did you know I want to be romantic?
I want to tell you about the time I went on a trip,
taught a Spanish class (and no, I don’t know Spanish).
I was enlightened.
I learned the art of humility and ability to make rice into twenty different meals.
I could talk for hours about my dreams and what I think of everyone I know,
of psychology and school and Waterloo.
My family is as looney as the next.
I’ve got a nickname and know more bad jokes than anyone I know.
And I’m sure I could give you some tips on making cookies.
I want to tell you these things,
but I won’t.
I’m shy.