time after time
after time
after time

we repeat the appropriate
expected
scheduled mantras

as if they still have meaning
as if they promote feelings
as if the syllables are different now
in number, as the words leave our lips

the bittersweet

wishing for a time
before time
before time

when the resistance of regret
was as foreign to us
as wilted blossoms to seeds.

I am not the girl you admire on the train
I am not eye candy
grown wild in the streets

I am nothing beautiful
nor mouth watering
not desired
nor dreamt of

I am the fire and I am the eye

I am wits-end
calloused fingertips
split ends
tired eyes
and cracked skin

with every hope in the world, still
that I could lead one more heart to demise.

There is something disturbing in the scarcity of my name leaving your lips.

It comes in a whisper, in a hiss. It comes as mist on the wind. It comes, but never stays.

Is it necessary for me to lose control of the corners of my mouth, my throat bubbling in a giggle, when you finally say my name after two months?

As if it were something to be kept secret.

I want to have gardens on my arms
I want to carry pictures of all I have loved
and all I have lost

I want roses
and roses
and roses.

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.

I know
my mother is not proud of me
when I change my hair
bejewel my face
or tell her about the newest boy.

I am my mother’s daughter,
and we have made so many of the same mistakes.

I hope
my mother is proud of me
when I get a nice job
in the tallest building in the city
wear nice clothes
and sell my soul
to become another piece
in the people’s machine.