I don’t write for your piece of mind
for the ability to see inside my soul
and lodge picket fences into my feet
and address your opinions to my doorsteps.
I’d burn my inbox to the ground before
it’s flooded with your Noah letters
and trademark concerns
and a nightly Skype request.
Maybe I used to write for you,
to hear about the trickle of smiles
that you run to achieve
and the feeling of us touching.
Now, it’s for me,
you can still feel with me and grasp
my heart inside your hands like a tiny puppy
but it’s still mine.