which one tells the truth
and which one is scared?
the closed cautious heart,
or the one that is bared?
how many rotations,
all the moves to and fro,
before the poor lovers
determine to go?
and who ends up happy?
and who ends up best?
the heart that’s deciding,
or the one that is left?
This battle
will be fought
away from the eyes
of those
who have
the most to lose.
May they never
know
this pain.
Please God,
let them
never
know
this
pain.
You want so desperately
for them to see me
the way you do.
Not content with your own
malice,
you feel the need to plant
it in their hearts.
you water it,
feed it,
not realizing that
my love for
them is far more
powerful
than your
hatred
of me.
this book is covered
with flowers
and pretty things
but I’m afraid
that inside
it will be filled with
black
and
hatred
and
disappointment.
My hair is done
and
clothes
just right
And I am afraid
that
I
am filled
with
black
and
hate
and
disappointment.
I pray
that
somehow,
in filling this
pretty book,
I will empty
myself
of
worthlessness
and find,
once again,
the light
and
purpose,
and
love,
that
is
hidden
beneath.
hangups,
fears,
insecurities,
and
some would say
common sense,
were
victorious today.
you always have to
say
bye
first.
I love you
and your
sweaters
and your two shirts
and your
motorcycle.
and your gunness.
(not so much your guns but your knowledge of them.)
it all makes you you
and reminds me of highschool
with
upturned collars
and fast cars
and flying paper.
And I wonder,
as the paper, cars, and collars were replaced,
what will come after the
cycles,
shirts,
and guns.
(not so much your guns but your knowledge of them.)
i said i’m sorry
twenty years ago
when your heart was broken
by a girl who,
in my opinion,
was so
utterly
wrong for you.
Not good enough,
smart enough,
to challenge the
brain I knew.
I watched you cry,
held your hand,
sobbed for you.
hoping
that one day you would see me
as more than
a shoulder.
(I told my mom I loved you)
(but not you)
you said i’m sorry
twenty years ago,
with the lips that had
just
pressed
against mine.
A night of coming home
festivities.
(I sang a song in your ear as we danced)
Watching you drive away
i knew your regret,
but i didn’t feel it.
I held onto that night.
i said i’m sorry
nineteen years ago
after watching teen talent.
You requested my presence
as a friendly gesture, to
touch base
again.
You had hardened,
a bit sadder
than before.
I left early;
you voiced no objection,
but you still remember
the flowers on my dress.
(you say i shook your hand before i left)
( i say i just wanted to touch you
one
last
time.)
you said i’m sorry
a year and a half ago,
that my life
wasn’t quite the
fairytale land of wonder
that you had envisioned for me.
But you made it better.
made me better.
We healed each other,
(we were both a bit broken, weren’t we)
with tiffs about old stories
and
reminiscing about
parentheses and paper.
i said i’m sorry
four months ago
when i saw your boxes.
And i realized then
that maybe my brokenness
was healed,
and maybe it
wasn’t,
but i was afraid to put
weight
on it
still.
(and you thought it was you,
and i knew you did,
but it never was easy
to convince you of your
wrongness.)
and now we say
we’re sorry
not because we are.
but because of
who
we are.
and we don’t quite know
where
that
puts
us.
but i’m pretty sure that
I love you
(I told my mom. and you this time.)
our dancing days aren’t over
(I’ll sing a song in your ear)
I still use any excuse to touch you
(even though the flowery dresses are long gone)
Our once again slightly broken selves are
hoping
for time to celebrate a million more
I’m sorries.
(I hold on to that)
i’m tired
of thinking too much,
of always having
some
funky
internal crisis
that needs
immediate resolution.
no drama is
my middle name
(or I wish it were)
so
why
why
why
have I become
the
freakin
poster child
of
internal combustion?
I asked my dad tonight,
“Dad?
why is life so complicated?”
“Two words,”
he replied,
“but
I’ve
forgotten
them.”
what’s ironic
is that
my desire for freedom
has
more to do with
future desires
than
current ones.
sigh.
deeper sigh.
inflict
a little now
or
a lot later?
(and why is that the question?)
welcome
back
to
dirt with pretty packaging.
who am I?
So frightened
of its absence.
makes me feel
slightly askew,
as it’s quite the
opposite of what
everyone
else
wants.
how do I
reconcile
my desire
with my
future fears?
choose love now,
or surety
of
liberty later?
…like trying to explain
God
to an atheist.
