unpublished

unpublished drafts,
false starts,
thoughts too unfinished,
ideas too unrealistic,
dreams too vulnerable,
nightmares too vivid.

many words woven into broken sentences,
broken sentences fabricate imperfect stories,
imperfect stories clothe me in layers,
yet i won’t bare myself to all,
i wont share my imperfect layers,
i will allow few to witness me,
i will allow even fewer to hurt me.

i don’t fear the man in the mirror,
i fear the egos at the window,
the rigid culture at the door,
the polarized masses i shuffle through the airport with.

so,
most the time,
i write,
eyeball the publish button,
pull the cozy gray hoodie over my head,
wiggle my toes beyond soft black pj pants,
and press, “save draft”.

tonight,
yawning and tired,
i’ll press publish.