This isn’t poetry.
There’s no way to poetically word
how your fist hit my cheek or how
your hands wrapped around my neck so tight I wore a scarf until New Years.
365 days have passed and I still remember how I spent Christmas;
with a bottle in one hand
and an ice pack in the other.
Trying to soften the bruises
and ease the swelling caused by
your not-so-sweet hands while you were nowhere to be found.
I spent it alone while you were probably out with her again.
Maybe I tried calling you,
if I did you didn’t answer.
That’s something I don’t need to
think hard about.
That’s something I was used to,
you disappearing after etching your fingerprints into the valleys of my skin, leaving reminders like
red ribbons on my forearms.
Yet it was never a gift, more like
a painful reminder of the present.
Hoping to forget your hate-filled words you spewed from the bottom of the stairs.
Hoping to not remember the fear that had risen in my chest,
hearing your footsteps get closer
as I lay in the dark.
I’ve always feared the dark,
but it comforted me more in times of pain than you ever had.
Now I lay in the dark,
bottle in one hand.. pen in the other.
I spent Christmas alone again,
this time by choice.
For these memories are the reason
I find the holidays not so jolly.
I’d rather just forget.
Looking at her reminded me of the muddled paint left on unfinished canvases. A product in the works that was never quite finished.
Each glance you could interpret something different, just like her.
I never got to know who she truly was, but I’ve learned pieces within the few months I’ve had the pleasure of knowing her. Information I now carry like a badge, honoured she opened her soul to my blank page of a heart – now filled with scribbles to remember that her favourite colour is burgundy and that the fresh scent of winter air brings happiness to her.
Now I think of her each time I paint. Each time I hold my coffee in one hand, brush in the other. I can’t help but compare the hot coffee to her eyes, slightly bitter but brings warmth to my soul. Sometimes sweeter than expected, other times cold and unpleasant. Yet, something I never grow tired of.
She’s the inspiration behind my best work, as she has always brought out my full potential- no, she helped me find my full potential. She taught me that muddled paint can be beautiful, you just have to look a little harder – take some time to learn what it’s trying to say.
It’s not always positive, and that’s okay. Art isn’t created to make you happy – it’s created to make you feel something, anything. As long as you feel, it’s fulfilled it’s purpose.
Just like her. She never promised to bring me happiness – she never promised anything at all. But dear god, she’s made me feel.
with being committed to our inconsistency
I’m fine with it being
one sided most of the time
For nothing is more fearsome
than actual commitment to me
I’m afraid to give my all to someone again
Yet.. isn’t that what I’ve done?
Maybe that’s why I hold onto you
You’ve created a balance
that I’ve never experienced
You settle and create chaos,
which gives me life
Yet disappear and allow me to roam free
Boundaries are something I avoid
Yet, I’ve bound myself to you
I no longer feel the void
The void of loneliness in my chest
Even though I’m always alone
I’m content in this nothingness that
I’ve allowed to become my everything
You’ve become my everything
Yet we are nothing
And that’s okay
It’s hard to write
that don’t feel like mine..
in my chest feels like home
always by myself but never quite alone
is creeping in again,
a familiar feeling
i welcome it with
feeding it pills
passing the time
I promised you’d never hear from me again
But sometimes, I break promises
I break them when I don’t want to
When I don’t know what else to do
I come to you
the weight on my chest
makes it hard to breathe
And you’re like a breath of fresh air
I want you to be here
But I know you’re not there
It’s not fair
Sometimes, I’ll sit in the dark
Letting time pass
Hoping to hear from you
Waiting for a message
that may never come
Hoping that maybe, I’m wrong this time
I’m never wrong but, dear god
I would choose to never be right again
As long as I get to hear your voice
And have you next to me in bed
Sometimes, I lie
I told you
that you’d never hear from me again,
hoping you’d ask me not to go this time
Drunkly, you spilled out your thoughts;
“I’m sorry my actions have caused you pain. Please, never invest your beautiful self into unkind people again. At least now you have blunt me, telling you when you’re being naive. ”
I hadn’t heard from you in a while, initially I was in awe. I mustered the courage to respond;
“If I’m being honest, the hurt I’ve endured isn’t entirely your fault. It’s my own. I’ve always called myself a dreamer, as I keep my hopes up even when there’s no reason to be hopeful. Typically, ends painfully – but it’s who I am. A blunt you is better than ugly people who say the prettiest lies.”
Silence – not long but unnerving.. you responded with words I’ve longed to hear:
“This here, the real you, the one that isn’t hiding anything, or covering things up with humour – the one that isn’t beating around the bush.. this is my girl.”
Our inconsistency has become a constant variable in our lives. Something I’ve yet to understand, but have come to terms with.
We’ve found balance in our chaos within each other, not always there – but never, truly gone.
sure, you stayed in my heart.
but that doesn’t mean you stayed.
for you left long ago, but your
presence still lingers.
you’ve become the vine that’s
twisted its way through
the concrete walls that confine my heart,
i had built these walls
so high, hoping to create
an unclimbable boundary.
sealing off any chance
yet, you are not only
within my boundaries.
you’ve become a part of them
I sit in a dim lit room,
trying to put my thoughts
into sweet poetry.
I write with hands that no longer feel like my own.
And my minds a fucking mess,
but no one wants to hear that.
They want unrequited love,
they want emotional spoken messages.
It’s hard to write that when your thoughts make you want to blow your brains out.
I’ve thought about dying
everyday this week.
I can feel myself slowly slipping.
The numbness sweeping through my veins
like a warm embrace
as I take those pills
and down this drink.
Close my eyes and await the morning,
if it comes this time.
this time yesterday I was drunk.
This time I’m sitting on a park bench,
in the cold winter night.
Trying to get high enough to not feel this sorrow that’s been slowly eating at my mind.
I tried to call you but you were busy,
you asked if I was okay
and I told you I was.
I didn’t want to be any more of a bother than I already was.
Instead I sit here,
barely able to type.
Not just from the cold
but from bashing my hand
on a light post
hoping to deceive my mind into only feeling physical pain.
Now I feel both
and I want to sink down
into this bench-
let the night consume me.
I don’t want to be here right now,
not if that means being alone.
Please, pick up the phone
When it’s late, and I can’t sleep..
I throw on your shirt
that no longer smells of you.
Somehow, it helps me remember
your hands holding me in the night.
You’ve run away again,
but as always you’re not far.
You’ve chosen to close yourself off
as I desperately try to pry my way in.
It’s not long before I realize
there’s no way to open your doors,
my keys no longer fit.
They’ve never fit.
You’ve just left it unlocked sometimes.
So I just stand outside,
Watching your lights flicker
I know you’re there,
but I also know you’re not
From 5am texts to no replies
I’m used to being denied
You’re uneasy with being vulnerable
When you’re ready, you know
that when you open those doors
I’ll be there to hold you,
I’m not going anywhere