I’d lay there, no less small, but feeling very big

I’d breathe it all back into the earth

until my hummingbird heart quit

pounding like a sugar rush

I want to ask you where you go, 

but I know you’d never admit it. 

It’s okay, I get it: 

The dance floor is a piranha exhibit.

You keep seeds in your back pocket

like throwing knives,

in case of the need to be resilient.

I regret that I have reduced you to

three digits; numbers illuminated on a scale.

Becoming angry with you every time they rose

as if that was any indicator of your worth