“Well if you have
nothing else to say—”
Do not confuse my
stunned silence
with lack of meaningful
words.
Consider it
a veiled
threat.
“Well if you have
nothing else to say—”
Do not confuse my
stunned silence
with lack of meaningful
words.
Consider it
a veiled
threat.
This anemic life we’ve been living,
has left me cold
and hungry.
Bloodless.
How am I supposed to
have faith in others
when I can hardly believe
that I
exist?
You tried to kill her.
Silently.
It started with a smile,
then a stifle,
then a smother.
Finally, severing of sinewy bonds,
slicing open tendons so she
couldn’t
walk.
All the while
keeping the smile,
so she never knew
of your plan to murder her—
until it was too late.
It’s
so
quiet.
You’ve left
but you’re still
here.
Everything is gone
except the bitter
coffee grounds and
poison tongue.
As if my being alone
wasn’t enough
for you.
That doubled-over feeling,
you know the one.
Where your chest is crushed in
and your gut is ripped up
and your hands won’t
stop
shaking.
When your heart has come
to a complete
stop.
Your heart isn’t broken,
no.
That’s your soul ripping itself
from the mortal body
you’ve trapped it in.
That’s your soul saying,
“No.
I can’t do this anymore.”
You’re free to let it go,
you’re free to stay
doubled-over in agony
and let your spirit bleed out.
Or you can pick yourself back up
grab that flighty soul of yours
and stuff it right back where it belongs.
And carry on.
The moon looks dull in this changing light,
the chill of my skin has numbed the night
and the darkness, not as soft as I recall.
The light of the flame has been stricken out,
the warmth of our life, dead, throughout
and the closeness between hearts has built a wall.
But the morning will come and along with the sun,
I’ll build up the future that I have foreseen.
I’ll be sorely missed, but by things come undone,
I’ll shine brighter than you’ve ever fucking seen.
It’s like walking up a staircase
with every other stair removed.
You step with your weight,
feeling for the familiar surface,
only to find the emptiness,
the nothingness.
I know there’s a sunrise on the horizon,
I’m just too afraid to look.
The potential of a hurricane has me paralyzed.
The one who cries during happy movies.
The one who struggles through late nights,
the one who wears crippling loneliness gracefully.
(It’s becoming of her.)
The one who never stops loving,
the one who fears the unknown.
The one who forgives more than she is forgiven.
Not
your fucking doormat.
I may be
a woman grown,
a mother,
an adult by all legal senses of the word.
But I still have dreams.
I have dreams of
happiness,
of late nights,
of love.
Of love.
And just because I
am a woman grown,
does not mean I should shed these dreams.
It does not mean I must
lose the child within my heart.
