Anatomy of Self

Keep still,
my bitter heart;
it's not bees in my veins
making that hiss,
but denial
and disappointment
and Type 1 Diabetes.

If heartache was sugar-coated,
I'd be in a coma.

I'm a glutton
for dramatic prose,
and keeping my mouth shut
about the things that matter
is second-nature now;
those letters to the man
who gave me half his genes
have gone unsent too long.

I want to ask him
why our relationship
is two-minute phone calls
and filler conversations.

I want to know
why I can't move him
like a daughter should,
but maybe the bees
that aren't really bees in my veins
are right:

Maybe he doesn't want
to see the poet
behind these broken words
because pride
doesn't only hurt
when it's too tough to swallow.