you cried and i didn’t,
because why would we
ever do anything that
adheres to gender stereotypes?
and even though i wasn’t crying,
i could hear myself talking
in an endless stream of cliches
that pulled me through whatever
eddy of frantic panic
of dislocation
of petrifying disorientation
i was feeling,
and pushed me into a remote
grey
corner,
where i couldn’t feel anything
but how your sobs mixed
with the static of
horrible reception.
(and that was crying enough)
you said
“i don’t know what to do,”
you said
“what should i do?”
and **** me if i knew,
because i always know what to do,
but i’m not you,
but that’s why this has worked
for a year
and six days.
so i sat next to my chemistry textbook
on a rough grey slab of stone,
on a day that seemed like it couldn’t decide
whether to shine or not,
and listened to you
gasp
in air
like the words you had to say
but didn’t want to
were multiplying,
a cancer in your throat
and i wanted to
leave them there,
let you suffocate,
so i wouldn’t have to hear them.
but i’m the rock,
and i felt the rock,
and i couldn’t feel anything else by this point anyway,
so i said what i thought i would have to say,
but what i thought was the product of an
overactive imagination.
and this wasn’t sealable,
this wasn’t something that could be cemented into
the bench under my feet,
holding me and my invisible tears
and my chemistry textbook.
because i’m the rock,
but you’re my rock,
and everything was breaking
into something
that cut.
and you didn’t know,
and i didn’t want you to,
and you asked me,
and i didn’t know,
and you didn’t want to,
and i asked you,
and you smiled again,
and i disconnected in the cold of
a shaken faith.
and sat, and watched the grass grow.
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 3:51 PM UTC
you cried and i didn’t,
because why would we
ever do anything that
adheres to gender stereotypes?
and even though i wasn’t crying,
i could hear myself talking
in an endless stream of cliches
that pulled me through whatever
eddy of frantic panic
of dislocation
of petrifying disorientation
i was feeling,
and pushed me into a remote
grey
corner,
where i couldn’t feel anything
but how your sobs mixed
with the static of
horrible reception.
(and that was crying enough)
you said
“i don’t know what to do,”
you said
“what should i do?”
and **** me if i knew,
because i always know what to do,
but i’m not you,
but that’s why this has worked
for a year
and six days.
so i sat next to my chemistry textbook
on a rough grey slab of stone,
on a day that seemed like it couldn’t decide
whether to shine or not,
and listened to you
gasp
in air
like the words you had to say
but didn’t want to
were multiplying,
a cancer in your throat
and i wanted to
leave them there,
let you suffocate,
so i wouldn’t have to hear them.
but i’m the rock,
and i felt the rock,
and i couldn’t feel anything else by this point anyway,
so i said what i thought i would have to say,
but what i thought was the product of an
overactive imagination.
and this wasn’t sealable,
this wasn’t something that could be cemented into
the bench under my feet,
holding me and my invisible tears
and my chemistry textbook.
because i’m the rock,
but you’re my rock,
and everything was breaking
into something
that cut.
and you didn’t know,
and i didn’t want you to,
and you asked me,
and i didn’t know,
and you didn’t want to,
and i asked you,
and you smiled again,
and i disconnected in the cold of
a shaken faith.
and sat, and watched the grass grow.