Some. People. Just. Dig. Punctuation.

There is a part of me

That’s like the period

After a capital K 

In response to a lengthy



There is a part of me that chokes when my thumb speaks on my behalf. 

I question if I’m needed, or if it’s overkill. I question if I’m petty, or just an outright bitch?


Where there are so many filters

Between what’s meant

And the K. I sent.


There is a part of me that’s scared to see

What you really think I am.


There’s a part of me that longs to be 

the person in this pen.


Where the reality of what you see is I won’t just pretend 

and give the responses I intend.


Sometimes, silence just makes sense, 

and pettiness is present tense. 


If it comes from me, this part of me, I don’t see why I should amend. 

My flaws can be my friend. 

So, K. is all I’ll send. 


And the part of me, that is the period, that follows capital K

Is every bit as okay

As the one I will become

All of my pieces

Have made me

A complete sentence


The period is a mark

Of what has been the end

It is an indication

To stop and take a breath


Maybe there’s more to honor

For the parts I think I so wrong


Maybe, all our pauses, the broken notes, and scars, 

are everything we’ve needed 

To become the one we want

Where the person who is talking

Is the same one hitting send



Maybe it’s just grammar, and I like to punctuate. Maybe I’m overanalyzing, and I really need

(a break?)


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