How do we miss
and continue to love
the ones who have hurt us
irrevocably
is it the moments
though brief
full of promises
promises
never kept
always broken
(breadcrumbs for
emaciated birds)
shards of
good intentions
scattered
slicing
through stubborn
normally thick
skin
with ease
(tis but a flesh wound…)
like tiny splinters
hidden deep under fingernails
there throbs
a constant pain
of remembering
what was
what could have been
what will never be
It is Sunday.
Just another day
which was supposed to be ours.
Yet
Here I am
Alone
Realizing that
Days don’t belong
to anyone
They are just
measures of time
fading into the nothingness
of the
eventual forgotten
Still
it is Sunday
Just another day
Yet
I haven’t the Heart
The Desire
Nor the Wish
to share it with
anyone else.
I didn’t want to talk to you.
Receiving your messages before, I shrugged them off.
Curtly. Succinctly.
And I owed you nothing. Not a damn thing. I didn’t have to call you back.
But I’m not built that way.
I’ve spent far too many nights reaching out to empty bottles and lonely walls echoing my wretched breathing and the staggering pace of a sickened heartbeat.
I’ve played the part of functioning human while all were none the wiser to the inner cataclysm that just seemed to be on a never ending loop of emotional implosion.
No. I didn’t want to talk to you.
But I didn’t want you to be lost in that all too familiar gaping void of isolated solitude, either.
Begrudgingly, I did what I had promised myself I would never do again.
I let you back in.
Gods curse my caring heart.
Pouring regrets,
mistakes,
guilt,
into this
rocks glass
*neat please*
it’s the way…
the road
to perdition
a constant
hell
of one’s own making
exoneration
is a
pipe dream
as lucidity fades
culpability
becomes
a
faint tendril
disintegrating into
the dawn
forgiveness
teasing
with the
rising
of the sun
self-delusion
as it
diminishes
returns
to the
blurred
and sloppy
self-loathing
as the
exhaustion
of BEING
becomes a dense,
thickened, hairy
weight
on the
soul
all that is left
for respite
is sleep
only to
repeat
on the morrow
The ones I loved
The ones I wanted
The ones I lusted
All could give a
flying fig
for me
a history of
chasing men
who had been
nothing but
back alley
beggar boys
sneakily dressed
in much
fancier clothing
just
(faintly squint)
a tiny bit
too large
for their
diminutive
frames
all whilst
my woman’s heart,
devotion,
and
hunger
had remained
far more feeling,
staunch,
and ravenous
And like dominoes
I kept queuing
them up
Each had
been
placed
and
balanced,
precariously
forming that tenuous line
of repeated
fowls and
heartaches.
the fickleness
of the foolish
a test of my
patience
Until I
came to realize
this was
far more trouble
than it
was worth
weary sigh
head tilted
my finger gave
the smallest
poke
to the very first
pip
and
The quiet rhythmic
clacking
soothed
the
*click
*click
*click
of each
falling into the
other
closure,
leaving
a flawless
mess…
a pile
of ivory rectangles
pieces
with no
discernible match
Gingerly,
with care
and reverence
I placed each tenderly
within the case
This was a game
I no longer
cared to play.
I rebuilt myself
I kept the good
Dropped
*an anvil thud*
everything else
Almost.
I gave up dairy
and the smokes
the bourbon
at late night dives
the wine
while vacantly
watching
the telly
pisssssing
away
time
No more sweets
snacks
mid-afternoon donuts
as breakfast
and lunch
sometimes dinner
stopped talking
to the sociopathic
ex
listening
to their
false promises
drenched in
candy covered
shit
The Fair weather
friends
Whom I’ve bled for
While they never
broke a sweat
for
me
I let go
of my past
the mistakes
the self-loathing
the doubts
the hammering anxiety
at the weakening
bark
of my being
I did all of this.
*improvement*
*progress*
*growth*
But there’s still you.
lightly
Heavily
subtly
Obviously
Tearing it all apart.
Drowning
Gasping
Swallowing gulps of
Desolation
I had a life jacket
Ripped it off
Was so
Constricting
It kept me from swimming
Who knew
I just needed to keep afloat
Now
Sinking to
The Depths
Eyes glazing
over
Pulse slowing
Heart faltering
I will never
See
The Sun Rise
or Set
Again
I did this to myself
When The Beaten Horse
Cannot Stand, Thrashing It More
Will Not Do The Trick
My Life Currently
Much Like A Leaking Pen, A
Mess Everywhere
all the skeletons
sitting quietly in my closet
piled one atop the other
neat and organized
collecting dust in storage
are others
as orderly as mine
or
are they a haphazard mess
femurs and fubulas
tumbling tibias
scattered scapulas
avalanching out in a chaotic cacaophony
whenever someone
merely
jiggles
the knob
not sure
but the idea
bothers me
no
its best to keep
these things
trim and tidy
should a stranger
peek in
They’ll see
only
winter coats
rain boots
and stacks of
nothing
important
But Otherwise Fine 