Winter 2013

The one who saved me...

They call it closure right? An end to carrying this around

like a f*****g other self I live while those around

pity my isolation, never once suspecting the horrendous

fascination pursuing this brings to my daily waking hours.

Handed over. Definitely unfairly. I concede. Agreed.

An awkward situation where your past intrudes

most impolitely, the impudence persisting

never mind the no encouragement on your part.

Now you must read, now you too must live

the irony of knowing but unable to do anything,

but caught up in the life of your own making. I am sorry.

Too many bloody words. I blame you sure, even as

I exult in your once salvaging of me. If not. If not some

unsuspecting part of you, reaching out then,

capturing fear, thrusting it into ink. Sure, I'd be

some place, other, beyond this misplaced

town-house they call reality. A brief news bite.

I've missed you. Missed me more, the self igniting,

melting, melding, mending even broken-down dreams.

I so do crave the lips through which I drank reckless abandon,

never expecting they'd shut silent, or that I may be

outside one day so f*****g thirsty, watching them

pour life yet unable to reach in and take some taste.

Some other woman stepping in and drinking everything

in my place? Who'd even expect?

Closure sure. Cutting you loose. Bullshit excuse for

letting you know where I've been lurking and giving you

the burden of carting it around, because I bloody

blame your once reluctance to secure me. Hold me down.

Still refusing to accept my insignificance. I am sorry.