Untitled #4

I leave too much as beginnings
afraid the middle will be stale
the end anticlimactic
or maybe the middle
will be perilous
and the end devoid
of anything the beginning
once resembled.

Your eyes have always been
clouded with resentment
behind a jovial exterior.
I always thought I’d be able
to kiss away the fog
whisper away the frustration
embrace away the misery.

It turns out
when you use your birthday wish
to put out forest fires,
you extinguish yourself
in the process.