Dichotomous mind, making me an idol
then a liar
my mouth should have remained closed
so you could not have reached in
and twisted my tongue
the drama unfolds in passive-aggressive
turning my apology
into Medusa
only reminds me of why I stayed away
it is enough for me to know;
I did not look down on you
and I did not lie

I was unprepared for your lack of self-awareness
and the way you approach life like a
kid running the wrong way with the ball
Sometimes I feel like your mother
sending you to your room so you can tantrum
Other times I feel like your daughter
when you lay out my pill as if I can’t take it myself
There is a difference between being creative and indecisive
between sensitivity and overreacting
You have to find who you are, and stop lifting so many lids
your anxious energy is clinging to my calm like a parasite
eventually, you need to find a calm of your own
take your spinning outside inward, where things are still
I want to help you, and I will, because I love you
but rarely, rarely, do I feel like your lover
partly because I don’t want to anymore
I don’t want your touch, I don’t want your kiss
your hands are annoying me, please let me sleep
I don’t want to gag and choke on your tongue
just rest for a while, so I can figure out how to do this

Not even a year since that photo was taken,
how much joy and identity was living within
graceful, limber inter-twinings;
the fresh breeze of womanly motion
Now, I have to put her away,
cover her with
wool coats
closed lips
polite smiles
Regurgitating reasons over and over
do not help and do not belong
Redefining the sound and taste of a soul mate
replace with comfort in growing old together
The only problem is, that I am not old yet
and the in between still matters

Should writers live alone?
I asked, when we had the conversation
for the 102nd time about my fierce
independence, his continual hurt feelings
and boy grabbing onto mommy's skirt occasions.
I am daydreaming more and more often now
wishing to god that I still had my own place
and did not have to share my rooms, inward and outward.
Could he just stop talking?
Instead of cream, I'd like some silence with my coffee.
Doesn't he have anything better to do
besides watching me try to read this book?
God, I can be a ******* Einstein:
"I will send for you when I want you"
I hate this in me when I see his eyes flinching
but some days, I fight for it
the war of the independent introvert
not so docile, a loner, as one might suppose.