Scrapped poem for my writing class

to you,
what
am I?

If I become a ladybug,
do I change you or do you change me?



I'm thinking and thinking and overthinking—
but hey, maybe it's okay if I only live for a few weeks.
Maybe's it's okay.
Maybe you'll let me loose
because "it's okay, it's okay,"
though I know you know that I know
damn well it won't be that way
because I
will taint the nectar you drink
with my futile attempts to defend the tiny red—
spotted
—lump that is my heart.

(&whenyouaredonedrinkingiwilleatyours)

this poem, this metaphor,

it's really little fucking more

than a caricature of art (like us to happiness, no?)

and I can't do it

I can't do it

Lord, I can only dream of being a ladybug, that lucky little insect who could never possibly comprehend the unending torture of ending day after day after day looking around her little garden to see everything you've left behind.
I can only dream.
I can only dream (of you).