you hurt me in a way that does not
fill me with anger and resentment or a desire
to get some kind of revenge on you
it's the kind of hurt where i feel like it was all my fault and it's hard
because we have a history
and there's an automatic attachment that comes
with that
but somedays i just get so scared that you might hate me and i think
in these moments i remember the few instances where you made
me feel loved
and i try to hold onto those memories for no
good reason at all i'm just so afraid
of not being loved
because i don't feel worth loving
because i'm not very good at
loving myself
and even though
you are the last person i actually need to be loved by,
for some reason i just can't let go
of the fear that you don't love me and i think that's because
of my refusal to accept that you never
loved me at all

waking up beside you felt like a failure,
talking to you felt like a compulsion,
you liked me because i was unavailable in every way
except physically
and i liked you because you were unavailable in every way
except you provided an inconsistent comfort
that i hadn't felt in years

i don't know who to blame
to must be you
it must be you
you were the first person who removed my insides
and stuffed me with false reasons for why
you felt like nothing needed to change
and i believed you because i have a heart
that is easily manipulated
i don't like thinking about it
but it sticks to my mind like a moth sticks to a lightbulb
and there is no switch
to shut
it off.

you brushed my hair back from my forehead and whispered,
"why are you crying?"
"i don't know." i said.
how could i tell you it was because
everything about being near you was wrong?
how could i tell you that ever since i've known you
i've felt like you tried to take everything that was good in me
or maybe i gave too much away without thinking,
and now i feel like a shell of a human being?
how could i tell you that the reason i keep coming back to you
has nothing to do with me caring about you in any way
and has everything to do with the fact that i'm too weak to feel worthwhile
when being on my own?
how could i tell you that you owe me a million apologies without
you accusing me of how many things i've done wrong?
how could i tell you to let me go right now
without you asking me to list valid reasons why?
how could i tell you that my heart is tired, that i can't
do this anymore,
that the act of collapsing into your paper-cut arms is easier
than admitting i'm not okay?

"i don't know." is all
i can say.

I looked in the mirror, then shook my head in shame.
I keep pointing broken fingers but I'm the one to blame.
I heard a story yesterday about a man who died.
They say he pulled his heart out through his chest and placed an note inside.

I guess I'm not too different dear because I never see
the man with notes inside his chest will always be
a
shackled
me.

Saturday afternoon
cycling up a 1in 6 hill
then along the road
toward the farmhouse

you dismounted
and laid your bike
against the fence
and waited

to get your breath back
the farmhouse door opened
and Mrs Putt came out
and said

Jim and Pete are out I’m afraid
her daughter Monica
appeared by her side
they’ve gone out

with their older brother
Monica said
ok
you said

tell them I called
sure I will
Mrs Putt said
I can go on a bike ride

with you if you like
Monica said
Benedict won’t want to have you
to drag along with him

Mrs Putt said
Monica pulled a face
and pouted her lips
I don’t mind

you said
better than riding alone
well if you don’t mind
Mrs Putt said

mind you behave
yourself young lady
she said
and went indoors

and closed the door
just get my bike
Monica said
and went back behind

the farmhouse
you looked around
the farmhouse
and the surrounding fields

and trees and waited
after a few moments
she was back
riding her bike toward you

where we going?
she asked
lets go see the peacocks
along Sedge lane

you said
and so you got on your bike
and off you both rode
she beside you

in her summery dress
and sandals with her
brown hair tied
in bunches

you in jeans
and open neck
white shirt
the sun bright

and hot above you
the birds flying
and calling
the clouds puffy

and white
I’ve always wanted to go
bike riding with you
Monica said

but the boys don’t let me
but I am now
you nodded and smiled
wondering Jim and Pete

would say if they knew
she’d got to go
bike riding with you
she chatted on about Elvis

and the film in town
and how she’d like to go
but no one would take her
and how her brothers

teased her
and her mother
nagged her
after a while

you came to the peacocks
in a wire cage
by a large house
just off the lane

aren’t they beautiful?
she said
peering through the wire
her fingers holding on to

the cage
standing beside you
yes they are
you said

but of course
the **** bird
has the beauty
the hen

is just dull
and ordinary
odd that
she said

wonder why?
don’t know
you said
I’m not dull

and ordinary am I?
she asked
looking at you
sideways on

no
you said
you have
your own beauty

do I?
yes you do
and she blushed
and looked away

and the peacock
called out
and moved off
opening its colourfulness

and Monica did a twirl
making the patterns
move
on her twirling dress.

All beginnings are beautiful, the French say
Maybe that is why betrayal stings, a finger in a light socket
a lasting burn, like a blister on my foot, my pace is made painful
I walk wounded, stop to try to salve the wound, protect it with the gauze bandage of
"it is over now, he can't hurt you anymore" which bleeds through and needs to be
changed, reminded, advice and commiseration of friends is the antibiotic salve

I look at you and remember a one time mentor and now I watch your behavior
a plastic bag in the wind, your opinions and pronouncements tossed here and there
hour by hour, depending on who is there at the moment to influence you
Shapeshifter you are, talk is too dangerous now
my resentment bubbles over like a hot, shaken, warm soda, even if I try to keep
the cap on, once the froth commences, there is no help, I can't hide it as the liquid
radioactive anger spills forth onto my hand and onto you

So hard for me to accept the death of a relationship
You are still alive and breathing, so how can it be that something is dead?
But there is that dead space between us and a fear of you
in me, and memories, like little sores, in my belly of your abuse
of the wetness of my tears that destroyed the art of my make-up
washed away the eye liner on my bottom lid, as if it was my dignity

All the bills were coming in
I've paid off all of them
There's credit on the plastic
I'm free-wheelin' again

Work is done and over
We are with our friends
Corks have popped, it's Friday night
We're free-wheelin' again

Winter's been a long one
Like it would never end
Soon the bikes are coming out
We'll be free-wheelin' again

If you were good and they thought
You’d be safe to walk along to the drugs
Hatch and pick up your own batch of mind
Snatchers, then that was ok, because
It meant they trusted you (fools) and you
Could wander along the corridors and gaze

At others who were on their own way to Hell
And back and sometimes not back at all,
But in some perpetual purgatory where
They were poked and tormented and maybe,
If lucky, purged and delivered sane
(What that meant no one said

Or maybe knew) but if they thought
You bad and unsafe, you’d not be
Allowed out of the locked ward,
But have to sit or wander around
And around the ward or adjoining
Rooms pulling faces at yourself in

Mirrors or windows, or arguing with
Others, nurses, or the quacks with
Their dark eyes and foreign accents,
Until the day’s light crept off,
And the night and lights out call,
And strange bedfellows came in

With the mutters and cries along
The watchtower where the night
Staff peered, sighed and smoked
And cursed and drugged you
And others (not themselves),
And too often joked amongst

Themselves like hyenas picking
Over some corpse; except these
Were alive, if living is what it was
They did, behind the tall walls
And high windows, with the endless
Hum of human voices, of the asylum.