He said, “Mom, I’m not sure I know what love is, but I think I might love her. Even though she and I might never be more than just friends, I want her to be happy.”
I said, “So you do know what love is then. You know exactly what it is.”
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.
I’m certain that neither one of us
know the other
and what I did know of you
I have most likely forgotten
I can’t recall the way you kissed
or what your hands felt like upon my skin
or whether I asked you to dance
or you asked me
it was so long ago
25 years give or take
and now we are both
nearly totally different people
after scars have formed on our hearts
so what are we to do
do we go our separate ways
once again
or do we try to recall
what brought us together in the first place
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 salt from my tears stings the cut on my lip
I push my tongue against it to feel the sting again
drag my teeth across it
taste the coppery tang from the blood
my mouth waters and I turn my head and spit
I wonder what brought me to this point in my life
it’s not the first time
but it’s definitely the last time
you’ll lay your hands on me motherfucker
so I commit it to memory
What is the flaw within us
that doesn’t believe we are good enough
for good love
Why is it easier to accept
the love
which isn’t really love
but merely sickness masquerading
We give them the benefit of the doubt
because we believe
we can see the possibilities inside them
of which there are none
and even if there were potential
it’s not up to us to nurture them
Brother of mine
do not make the same mistakes I have made
it will not get better
but only worse every time
until it will culminate
into something she can’t take back
Run away from her little brother
as fast as you can
as far as you can
It may be lonely for awhile
but not as lonely as a tomb
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 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
I pour the words out on the page
hoping to arrange them in some sort of order
to make my feelings known to you
and understand them myself
but it’s all just so much claptrap and drivel
you wouldn’t notice anyway because you don’t pause to read it
“Ugh, it’s poetry”, you think
“Don’t waste my time with that bullshit”
but it’s not merely my words you disregard
it’s me
you pay me no mind
even though you are all I can think about
show me who you really are
so I can stop this idol worship
and return my heart to its former state of hollowness
where butterfly wings fail to flutter
and no hope grows
Still histrionic, still a bookwhore; just faking competence because of my kid.
i've choked on my words for far too long
It's not the length of life, but the depth.
This is my mind, it’s not supposed to make sense.
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Fat Bottom Girl Said What 