conversationalist (n).

dcfd5e431c3749ea69fca869638029c5.jpg

I’ve become unskilled at
asking people questions because
the only questions that come
to mind are the kind that
don't fit in well at parties; 
at all times I am consumed
with bringing my hand to
the tender, glossy heart-place
made of glass, asking,

in how many pieces has
your heart been broken, and

how did you become the way
you are, and

what are the things that have
made you fearful? And

what chorus of thoughts
keeps you up at night, and

where is it that you
have made a home, and

when have you been
the most alive, or the
most stuck, or the most
confused, or the most
of everything, all at once, and

who is it you call when
your world stops -
turning or just
making sense or
freezes in those brief
shattering seconds
of doubt?

Forgive me, I no longer see
a room of pretty faces, only
a room full of gaping hearts.