The iron extrovert makes an apology

Like so many 25 year old women, I feel like I've had my share of heart-breaks. But in hindsight, I realize that I am just the kind of person who will inevitabley feel brokenhearted, simply because my heart is built with so much sensitivity in it. It is a fruit on the vine, so ready to contribute something sweet to the world that I can bruise at the slightest or gentlest touch. A heart that eager to give isn't always good for people, and i've done my share of hurting- so eager to be significant to people that I invest more than I can keep up with. I dive deeper than my lungs can sustain and invite more than I can possibly honor.Maybe I put my identity in being a person who could be everything to everyone. Maybe it came from pride. I don't mean to do it, and the curiosity and care is genuine. But I am just me. There is a list of people in my head that I've hurt this way. People I let down when I wasn't as able as I thought I was. The iron extravert: the bearer of a thousand weights, a thousand stories, and no muscle to back up the dillusional feeling of might. How did the list get so long? Sometimes, out of nowhere, I feel a massive weight of regret and responsability for broken relationships and friendships in my life. And all I can really do is apologize. I'm sorry to anyone I've hurt by acting as the iron extravert. I am weaker than my will. More ambitious than I am able. I'm learing. I'm learning when to let people stay a bit unknown. And I'm sorry to those I hurt in learning this.

When inevitable shades of dust and silt
coat and shroud the windowed gaze
to pierce the greenest youth with guilt
sigh, shall I, a knowing phrase
For flowers, mine in open spaces
too have crushed beneath the weight
of ghost-like lists of names and places
built with masks that mimic hate
finger's touch cannot confront them
nor the bravest searching eye
they don't exist in physical quantum
but dwell instead in my own mind

Time that goes by quickly
is actually just steadiness under the fragmented attention of someone distracted
the days that pass quickly are the ones that eat up years because they know you're looking through lace curtained windows
and quick backward glances forgotten in the next moment
head turning back while hair is still tossing from the backward spin
you are too busy saturating yourself in presence to notice that time is still slow
that a year is still 365 days
and a day still 24 hours
you are too busy living to count down anymore

Tonight a red sun drops
broad and dull in smoke
the eye of Chiang Mai
a temptress for mine, which have always wanted to stare into that fire
impossible for such a beauty to burn