this is a very personal piece, so please do not "share" this on other websites or give it any ratings or critical feedback. this is not a piece i'm looking for constructive input on. again, it is very, very personal so please respect that.
I know I’m a mess and I know I’m hard to handle
but it has been years now and I have never felt
as alone as I do now; your arms are still the
place I feel the most complete but your presence
feels so hollow.
Everything you’ve been seeing in my eyes
is real; it all exists and it all hurts and I don’t
really know what I’m going to do when I run out
of space to store these broken things and
that scares me because they might spill out
from my lips - and then what?
I am not good enough, I am not
good enough, I am not good enough;
I am not good enough, I am not
good enough. I have never ever been
Not to be critical but you could try a little harder
to make me feel like you understand anything
I have succeeded in doing, like you give a damn
that I’ve done it or not done it or have managed
to survive it.
They say suicide is selfish, that it’s a permanent
solution to a temporary problem -
but I’ve been toughing this out for the better part
of a year now and every day I wake up tired and
count the bruises and the scars and the waded up
reminders of how often I cry and this certainly seems
like a permanent problem with only temporary solutions.
Did you know that you’ve only ever said my name
while we fucked one time in the entire eight years
that we’ve been fucking? I say your name more times -
while fucking, during conversations, from the other room -
in one day than you have in the entirety of our relationship.
I do not think that you are a bad man. I do not think
that you have failed to be a good man, I do not think
that you have become a lesser man instead. I try not
to force you to conform to my expectations
of the kind of man you should be, but you’re not
the man I thought I was marrying and this understanding
is what is killing me. Am I not the woman you thought I’d be?
I weave you into my poetry like air. The last time you wrote about me
was when I broke your heart - and please keep in mind
that I’ve only done so once and that you continue to do it
like it is what will keep me around.
I do not feel pretty around you.
Instead, I am surrounded by the ghosts
of girls you’ve chosen over me, strangers in the dark
whose names you never learned and whose stain
is only on me, not you.
I used to recall fondly the way we were
when we were younger - handsy, full of need
and eager to make up for closeness we’d been denied
simply by not knowing - but these days
it only hurts.
Your ring finger is as naked as the day we met -
as naked as the day you met that waitress and
stopped returning all my calls, let me hear it through
old friends turned acquaintances -
and I know you are unaware but every single day I notice,
I am reminded, and I think I am not as permanent
as this marriage license implies. How many years
is it going to take for you to make up your mind on me?
I am cracked and leaking out and these are
wounds that you have inflicted but your hands
are always otherwise occupied when I am spilling out,
sloshing over the rim of my glass, staining the floor.