I am poetry scribbled on post-it notes littering your desktop.
I am campfire smoke soaked into curls tickling your chin
I am sprained backbone, stuttering at the microphone, forgetting my lines quite often.
And piles of books pushed into the shelf all summer
I am untuned piano keys that make beautiful music
I am the raging fire of a candle wick
I am a great story with a terrible ending
And I will always be too much for you.