so i gave a little bit of myself to everyone i met,
the support and kindness and forgiveness
that never came back to me.
when i reached with my hand to grasp what little i had left,
it disappeared from sight.
where did those feelings go?
found myself talking to women
hoping despite my best efforts
that the attention they paid me
would make me feel like i could be loved.
so i kept pouring water –
it didn’t matter what kind of water it was
if it sparkled in the light, if it was as black as night
i kept pouring water into the cup with a hole.
it was a silly thing.
i sat there alone and pretended to drink
while the contents spilled onto the floor.
“there will be enough water,” i told myself.
“surely, there will be enough water.”
It was quiet, save for the sound of breathing.
He slept, unaware of her, or her eyes. She could faintly make out his face.
For a long time, she watched him.
What the fuck did he mean by, “almost cute”? When he’d seen the expression on her face, he had laughed it off, distracting her with his touch. He was that kind of man. And yet, despite their mutual exhaustion, she couldn’t think of anything else.
Had he even enjoyed it? Was she good enough? Compared to…
… Hadn’t it been enough?
She got up, fumbled her way through the suddenly-unfamiliar room.
The shower water was as hot as it always had been. She made a fist as water met skin, steam quickly filling the room. Though she had closed the door, she hadn’t turned on the light, nor the fan.
The scent of soap would not be enough. She scrubbed and scrubbed, the sponge grating against ruined skin.
This was a mistake.
Spun sonnets from sorrow,
like a long-worn pair of boots, I’ve been walking.
Holes in each sole, her eyes,
& I, with walls talking
crossed hearts, crass words.
Tomorrow I will learn to breathe yet again,
in eight-or-nine-lettered pauses,
I love you,
you were everything I wanted.
Left me recovering in a three step process,
the nights we spent together, I processed,
and progressed to remember the lies you left on my skin.
“I… I think I love you.”
You only loved him in the bedroom.
And if we’d had room to talk and think,
I think you would have known.
And I? Still, I would have loved you.
I felt exceedingly empty
I had given something I did not want to
I felt trapped
yes, life goes on to be
quite the same
written for http://the-boxtroll.tumblr.com/ on 12/22/2015
February 24, 2012, 2:37 AM:
“Concept of Self” (Draft)
Slam poetry written in my senior year. The first piece I wrote, and delivered in front of a class of about ~25 students.