The words will never come
when you want them,
and rarely show up when you need them.
The words were you.
You were never there.
While at the same time,
words were all you were.
Such a way with words you had.
It’s always the words that draw me in,
and do me in.
And it’s always the words that fail me.
And in sweet irony, it’s the words that save me.
Every damn time.
she sought love wherever she could find it
in the back seats of cars
or dorm rooms
or on picnic tables at the lake
it really didn’t matter
she had no shame
when it came to seeking love
the shame came after
but the love never did
you’re all just smoke and mirrors
and I choke in your presence
fearing you’re
a mere reflection of the worst parts of me
and that
maybe
I’ve conjured you into being
like some sort of voodoo priestess
I have drawn you to me
by being broken and bent
and you
seeing all the worst in me
know what I will do for love
or that thing
you disguise as love
dress it up
teach it to speak more better
(the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain)
take it out on parade
regardless
it never fails to be what it is
a sick, twisted display of your narcissism
the same way the sun gets in
the gloom gets in too
but sunshine only sinks into your skin
the darkness permeates
it lodges in the sinew
the bone
drilling into the marrow
where it seeks a permanent home
once it visits
it’s loathe to leave
and even if you manage to kick it out
it always finds a way back in
polyester short set
purple Schwinn with the banana seat
skinned knees
bee stings
mosquito bites
stock tank swimming
metal roller skates
penny candy
soda fountain
ice cream sundae
cold water straight from the hose
sparklers and snakes
grubby hands
dirt rings around the neck
street lights
fireflies
bath time
cicada song
peaceful slumber
Like the old lady next door
you know
the one who feeds all the neighborhood cats
you’d never notice I was missing
until you see my newspapers piling up
and the old pie tins sitting empty
and the cats meowing because they’re hungry
you’d never notice I was missing
until the postman can’t fit any more
Home Shopping Network boxes on my porch
and can’t close the mailbox door
because there are too many Domino’s pizza coupons in there
you’d never notice I was missing
until you started to smell
my decomposing body
or maybe you wouldn’t notice
because you don’t notice me when I’m there
I count the potato chips because one is too many, and a thousand is not enough, and how many carbs are in them, and only wash them down with a diet soda, or a water, because really, that’s the most diet you can get, and I pass on the birthday cake, and the pieces of chocolate, and even the pie, and I try not to eat in a restaurant because it’s too hard and too tempting when you’re trying to be good, and still fit in your pants, and be as thin as you think you need to be inside your head, while feeling as fat as ever inside your mirror, and why can’t the voices ever stop, and I try to remember a time when food still tasted good, and could be fun, and I didn’t have to worry about fitting into my pants, and I loved that chocolate cake that my mom made, and holy hell, that Coke tastes good, and damn I love hash browns
you sow the seeds
but you only grow weeds
in your little garden you planted with her
fertilized with bitter words
showered with yelling like the squawking of a crow
“I love her, but I have my doubts it will work”
you told me
(and I wondered why you were bothering trying again)
ever the scarecrow
you don the overalls and the floppy hat
but even you can’t stop the foraging
your previous crop with her had failed
withered on the vine
you were different gardeners
both of you
afraid to throw in the trowel
so to speak
you can’t seem to take the sage advice
of the farmer’s almanac
about cultivating a healthy harvest
you reap what you sow you know
you have weevils
grubs
pests eating at the roots
nibbling away at the foundation
chop it all down
compost the crap
let go
and let it return to the earth
maybe then
you will find someone
who can help you bring in a crop
I doubt my existence in this life
everything is rote
monotonous
I’m unsure how I get to work
I sniff my armpit to make sure I put my deodorant on
food tastes bland and boring
my breathing is shallow
my blood feels like syrup in my veins
my hands have no grip
and I can’t feel the bottoms of my feet
color blind
I see nothing but various shades of gray
I am not among the living
diaphanous
depression has made me a ghost again
I sawed
and I chopped off
pieces of myself
trying to fit into the box
you made for me
tossing away
and shedding
all of those things
which made me
me
I rearranged
morphed
and deconstructed
the only me
I had ever known
and still
there was never enough room
in your heart-shaped box
for all the space
that I encompass
for all that I am
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