the cup with a hole (spoon theory)

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.”


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, *breathe*,
I love you,
you were everything I wanted.

But you
love me.

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.