I wish I’d had the kind of childhood in which
finding out Santa wasn’t real and that my parents were the tooth fairy
were the biggest lies I ever heard,
& in which happily ever after never turned into
such a disaster
but simply faded into modernity & bland happiness.
I wish I’d never read a love story,
or seen my father through a glass wall with high ceilings
on the inside & the out.
I wish I’d never had cause to wonder if you smile the same at her
as you do at me,
and I wish that I could feel like I’ve ever deserved security.
I wish I’d done something, anything to deserve
the lies you’ve fed me.
I wish I’d never felt like the world’s worst mock-up,
a draft, unfinished,
drowning in the backwash of my own empty cup.
I wish I’d never, ever, ever,
never ever
grown up.
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lightyears.
much like the stars we’ve dreamt of
and so fiercely loved beneath,
I fear that you will not see my light
until I am
long
past
gone.
that by the time you find yourself
searching for me,
there will be naught left to find
but dust and useless dreaming.
divergence.
in almost perfect stillness,
your sleeping breast rises and falls,
so slightly, so secretly.
those breaths you share
only with the sheets and me.
I wonder, as you sleep so sound,
and I lie restless in our bed,
what dreams are yours?
is it me that you see,
the lights in my eyes,
the sound of my breath?
or is it the bright of the city,
the call of something bigger?
I fear I am too small,
too insubstantial to know.
and so I wonder,
and so you sleep…
The seat below me is hard, cold, unforgiving. I’ve been sitting here for, I don’t know, an hour, just staring at this screen and hoping to find some solidarity in something. Maybe I’ll find something I can relate to. Maybe I’ll stumble into some life changing piece of advice, or random stranger, who’ll shine a light on everything dark and make things seems worthwhile again. Now, the longer I sit here, staring, hoping, the more I know that the world around me is just as hard, cold, and unforgiving as the seat beneath my aching bottom. I’ve searched so long for answers to so many questions. I’ve looked high and low, here and there, even deep inside myself, as the old adages often advise. I’ve found nothing worth keeping, nothing worth holding on to. Hope fades, leaving in its wake only strangled dreams and a sense of bitterness I doubt I’ll ever outgrow. So much is gone, never to return, and most of that is me. I feel empty, hollow, remorseful to the greatest extent I think humanity can reach. No one sees. How can they not see? But then again, I suppose, how could they? Maybe I expect too much, or maybe they offer forth far too little.
In any case, I am bare. Too much I’ve given and even more I’ve watched leave. I cannot, anymore. I’m so weary of trying to define the abstract, trying to make sense of a senseless world. Maybe best to just float until I sink. Let the world be what it is, and let me be alone in it. People are confusing and I no longer have the energy for the emotions I need to deal with them.
delicate.
you love me because I am “strong”,
but what if I am not?
what if I am weak and fragile,
in need of tender hands,
and precisely comforting words?
what if I am already falling apart,
struggling to remain upright,
desperate for an ounce of stability?
what if I am destined to fail,
regardless of eager “trying” and
countless tears of exhaustion?
will you love me, still,
even as I crumble in your hands
like yesterdays past,
or will you desert me?
will you leave me in dismay,
a broken pillar of strength,
a forgotten bastion of hope long past?
I have stood alone all this time,
and I want to believe you are better than most,
but this darkness has it’s hold and I am
no better, no stronger or sturdier
than the roses of winter.
malignant.
come to me,
in love.
with your passion,
in a fury.
bring to me your sin,
keep for me your dark.
let us lie in it,
unclean and imperfect,
wrapped in our shroud.
come to me,
in earnest.
with your open eyes,
in your painted skin.
bring to me your horror,
keep for me your heart.
let us tear them asunder,
wretched and irredeemable,
a violent unforgiven joy.
monster.
I have fallen, faithless, at the feet of a stranger,
sought solitude in open arms and found the sound of home
in beating veins, and thrumming heart.
we dance, and the sound is thunder,
we sing, and the world becomes a stranger.
what fate is love, but bittersweet?
what horror, what ecstasy, what dream?
follow.
if I could, I would fill every minute with you.
even as my hair sits graying, in my youth, and my skin becomes new and old at once,
I would sit and fill my breaths with your mouth and my hands with your skin.
as time, that bitter mistress, flew her hurried head around our ticking clocks and days,
I’d never regret those moments, for they, as you, are precious.
let the planets spin as they may around our burning sun,
and let man measure their passing, let them quantify the infinite as they must,
but let me keep you, in this moment and every moment, with me.
let me not chase you down these empty roads,
always two footsteps behind your voice that says, “I tried.”
echoes.
I am thankful for the broken hearts which came before mine.
for bleeding romantics who wrote sonnets, reminiscent of lost love and dire yearning;
for young lovers departed and never returning, for dreams which died upon waking and poison roses in the courtyard.
I am thankful for the ones who lost, before I ever knew what there was to be found.
for the silhouette of a drowning lady, asphyxiating in a room of only air and empty shells;
for the sounds of footsteps carrying across the last road we’ll walk together.
iamwhatshewrote 