why is it that I must wait
for your apologies to me
to be coaxed out of you
by your friends

who somehow smell
who somehow see
who somehow ******* hurting

long after the words fall from your lips

and far before the “sorry” comes?

after ***
I read about self care
self healing
self love
to make up for the fact
that you will not hold me
you will not heal me
after wrecking both my body
and my expectations.

it’s been one year
i am still consistently horrified
at the thought of what could go wrong
how many broken promises must I suffer through
like shattered glass in each step
******, broken, without you?

these days
i look less and less into your starving
stunning
open
absent eyes

in your vacancy

it almost makes the one-day
inevitable pill
easier to swallow.

“I’m gonna get it done this year.”

I speak the words, just above a whisper. Some sort of self assurant mantra, but mostly I speak them to you. You - two feet away from me.
You - two million miles away.

And as my lips shut, my heart opens, like always. Waiting for some sort of response.  Some kind of reassurance that you have the pride and hope in me that I always seem to lack in myself.

But you - two million miles away, with your nose buried in the vapid pixels of your phone.

My heart closes yet again.

I’m gonna get it done this year.

Done.

This.

we kiss
your hand on my thigh
pulling up my leg to hook your hip
just like in the movies.

I have been lilac  

I have been the sea.

I have been black as night,

(brown was just alright)

and a honey-blonde me.

I feel like every color of the rainbow

wouldn’t be enough to draw you to me.

I hear the electricity humming above me as I make my way back on the long dark road. Lampposts scarce, my way is illuminated by the irregular volumes of light pouring from the cars that pass me by. I catch glimpses of roadside carcasses  in the abstract light, and through my open mouth.

The path is clear but it is jagged. My canvas shoes have gotten wet from the shallow puddles I couldn’t see.

Sometimes it is dark. It is lonely. There are no cars, carcasses, or other urban romantic ideas to keep me company in my travels.

Sometimes I get so focused, furiously typing. I end up in the middle of the street. A horn blares. My heart catches in my stomach and I correct my failed trajectory.

It is 7:43 pm on a Saturday night at the end of February and I wish you were here to walk me home.

I wonder how long it takes
to complete this transition
from despair
to apathy

I've been waiting for ages
for this hurting to stop
so familiar, but so much sharper
than time and time before

in my past
the pain was not chronic

But you go on
and on
and on.

I dream so fondly of the dark
But I do not have the courage to see it through
The same cowardice that grips me
Holding me hostage
In every miserable corner of this life.

I'm the subscription inconvenience
Waiting for you at home
The love you don't have time for
The obsession you didn't ask for.

And despite my best efforts
I continue to restart each day

Fear in my chest
Water in my lungs

So heavy my head
So frail my heart

So easy to break.