Metamorphosis

You Never Asked Me

You never asked me.

You never asked me my favorite color.
It was sea-green, like the reflection off your eyes when you wore a hunter green shirt.
The color reminds me of the Destin beaches I grew up with-emerald green water.
You could pull me under with a rip current and I would thank you for the opportunity to see the world through your eyes.

You never asked me about my poetry.
About the wall of sticky notes shouting for attention in neon yellow, orange and pink.
The words in my two journals; for two years constantly in my hands.
You gave me the resources to continue writing (a typewriter and a lifetime of repercussions).
So many of my poems were about you.
I wrote over every surface for you.
And yet you were never interested in the character you played in my play.

You never asked me what I was thinking.
The battles I was fighting in my mind.
I know you could see the war zone in my zoned-out eyes.
You could feel it in the way my body was limp in your arms and it took more effort to smile than to ease into a state of numb.
I needed you most on those days.

You never asked me and you never will.