Processing Stories

I gave in to you countless times. Even when I knew I shouldn't and it wasn't fair The guilt of putting my foot down dissolves my spine. My boundaries crumbling from such little wear. I all but begged for my minimum, but you hand the same lines It's exhausting being devoted to someone who isn't there. At first, when I made my feelings clear, there used to be push-back. But I had to accept your decisions with no discussion...

I took it too seriously when you told me my feelings were reciprocated. I watched my own feelings intensify more quickly than anticipated. We used each other as band-aids, a safe and gentle fix Turned to each other for affection and comfort in moments of conflict. And then it had to stop, it had to shift direction. We had to redefine how we’d been participating in emotional protection. It seems you’ve moved on more quickl...

“Can we pretend things are how they used to be?”Can I look for my own reflection instead of yours in the mirror? The moments between heartbeats are the only ones your voice doesn’t follow. I can no longer hear affection after seeing your rage. Listening makes my ears bleed now.  “Can’t you just let it go?”Can’t you just let me go? My teeth ache from clenching my jaw.My throat, from choking down responses to keep peace, is...

“Letters”   I wrote you a love letter.But it burned before you could read it.There, in the warmth of the sunThat was in your eyesWhen you told me you loved me. I wrote you a love letter.But pieces were stolen in the windWhich kicked up to blow downThe bridge of words we triedTo use to reach each other. I wrote you a love letter.But it froze and wouldn’t thaw.It grew icicles as your shoulders – broad and strongRefused to t...

Marination...Wine...Writing...Good combo? No’ always.Y’uft. This isny a poem,it’s a random...Stringing of words.Pseudo stanzas...Drunken rambling,unedited.Crap.And that’s the way it shall stay. For the record, I’m not that drunk, and that "isny", is a Scottish word, so not a typo. I’m tipsy, but not drunk. If I was drunk, I’d still be able to type and make some sort of sense, but that’s my curse. I haven’t been rat-arsed...