Pause

You must know by now that because you've taken her, she needs you.
She waits on you.

I know you're looking for the same to come from where you once had been.  I know you're taking your time and being reckless.  Maybe you're killing time.  Maybe you're bored.

I know you're disinterested.
But I depend on you.

Unseen voices will come undone, and lower me down into my shallow grave.  Taunting me into the comatose fate I knew I'd always have.  Separated and detached, just like I always allowed myself to be.

If I wanted to, could I ever be more than what I've resigned myself to be?  There's so much still that I haven't known.  So much that I only think about when no one's listening.  They are the secret revelations I keep between me and the window well.

Romance never was my only option.  Yet it's the only thing that seems to make a difference anymore.

Will there be a way out for me, if I so desire one?
Or will it be too late?

I'll Never Be The Same (No. 10)

My boy loves me.

My boy loves me.

I'm sorry I keep talking about it.  I just feel like if I stop, I won't ever figure it out.

He loves me, he does.

I guess I resign to never seeing that side of life.  I resign to all those things we shoved aside.  The ones we put in the dresser drawer at night, saying we'd bring them out again when the time is right.  Then he locked it tight and put the key in the medicine cabinet.  Right where I'd never see it.

My boy…

He told me small lies and grand truths and I called that love.  He gave me reality and cynicism and I called that chivalry.  He threw everything I knew into a jar and shook it up and when I got it back, I couldn't tell the difference between heaven and the word "up."  I put my hands on the floor and walked on the ceiling and claimed I was just doing what I was supposed to do.

He loves me.

I got tired of saying it.  Of reminding myself.  It became the only thing I knew to be true.

He loves me.  My boy, he loves me.

After the river incident of June 2013, I was worse than ever.  I was trying to erase imprints of his thumbs on my forearms.  I was trying to sever the ties he had roped around my ankles.  I had cowered in his shadow for so long that I was afraid of my own.  I was expecting 6 more weeks of winter.  Turtlenecks, tights, and gloves in 90 degree weather.

He hated himself, he hated what he thought about, and he despised what he became.  He left little notes on the floor, and cleaned out my bedroom closet, and never once questioned the things I had collected over the years.  He made me breakfast.  The eggs were cold.  But the bacon was perfect.

The eggs were cold, but the bacon was perfect.  The days were fine, but the evenings were fragile.  The parties were long, but the walks home were lonely.  And I'll never forget the day he left drunk and I had to carry his shoes.  He never asked me once what I believed in.  He always assumed that I would leave him.  He was right to worry.  He was wrong to believe it.  No, I was too afraid.

My boy.  

I have no doubt.  

My boy will always love me.

Pseudonyms And Euphemisms

I'm not sure how often I should pray,

but just to be safe, I make sure I mention you every time.  

You're really something, I guess. 

With your straight back and your calloused feet.  I don't know what your name is, or where you were born, but you look like someone I've always known.  You look like someone I used to love.  I wonder if it was you all along.

Please don't think of me as inane.  I try to keep to myself on days like this, when the grass weeps and the trees quiver.  I try to pretend I'm someone else, someone more deserving.  But please do not think of me as anything but flawed.  And I hope one day you'll see them all as the epitome of love.  My every crack and my every fissure will someday be a representation of the stars that threaten to fall from the sky.  A representation of the way you look at that old photo of your mom.  

And every time you speak my name, we'll hear the wind fling itself against the front door, 

because when I'm around you, 

                                 I am not safe.  

I fear that I will run out of things to say, and we'll fall into patterns.  Cookie cut shapes of Christmas trees and bells, perfectly laid out on the table for all the neighbors to "ooh" and "aah" at.  We are merely caricatures, and silhouettes.  Our hands remain entwined, but our minds repel each other like broken magnets.  I fear this day and the days that are sure to follow.  I fear the silence, and the heartbeats that can be heard on even the rainiest of days.  I fear your judgment and your faith and your determination.  I fear your eyes will not ever truly see mine, and your ears will change the words I say.  

It's not right, and never will be, but I cannot help but ask you one more time, "Did you think I didn't mean it when I said I'm incapable of love?"