Mar 2014
I Hope You’re Happy & I Hope It Hurts
RikkiLynn Shields
A tear raced down my face
as I sifted through the cedar drawer filled to the brim
with remnants of you.
This drawer, your drawer, held your licorice black hat
and an empty bottle of your cologne that happened to smell nothing like you anymore.
In the upside down, you loved me back.
And when I saw you again in my sleep last night,
after an Aeschylus book and a wide glass of Jack,
there was a letter in my hand that I tried to read
just before I woke.
Your name smiled at me from the crumpled envelope.
Addressed to the past, unsent and unseen,
the envelope carried memories of my old self and a ratty hair tie
you claimed to remind you of me.
I peered at the polaroid picture you captured,
the one with the lights strung just high enough to be out of reach.
You were 23 and believed in God and I was 19
and didn’t believe in anything but you and me.
I felt like a forest lacking trees,
a room without a view,
and a lake you refused to swim in because the water couldn’t slightly compare
to your favorite shade of midnight blue.
I am where the rain falls.
I am the one who waters her plants until they drowned,
and that was the only way I knew how to love.
I peeled my eyes off of the letter,
lifted my head, and proudly declared to my room that
America was a nation founded by men
because it has a hard time apologizing.
I often describe you as the stillest of revolutions,
or the type of man who can never find a horse high enough to ride.
You could fall fifty stories down and barley bruise your ego,
even if your tried.
When you pulled the ocean over yourself to stay warm,
you unintentionally taught me to never love a man
more than he loves you.
I learned that if you love him more
not to let him know you do.
Learn to let him feel the love in a series of waves, not oceans,
so he can’t sink your ship if that’s all there’s left to do.
How long does sitting at a stop light feel when you’re late? Does it feel even longer when you’re on your way to say goodbye?
How cliché that we only ever kissed in my car.
You’re always either coming or leaving
but you’re never, ever staying.
A pretty mess of playful thoughts, colliding with my mind.
Someone, anyone, outline me a map to guide me back
to all the things I thought I lost
after leaving you behind.
Some things don’t always happen as gracefully as I had hoped,
and I have to learn not to feel the need to apologize for the way I grow.
This isn’t another tacky love poem, but it could have been.
Things never feel the way they are supposed to, do they?
I guess the sunset doesn’t looks as good when you try to take it home.
RikkiLynn Shields
A tear raced down my face
as I sifted through the cedar drawer filled to the brim
with remnants of you.
This drawer, your drawer, held your licorice black hat
and an empty bottle of your cologne that happened to smell nothing like you anymore.
In the upside down, you loved me back.
And when I saw you again in my sleep last night,
after an Aeschylus book and a wide glass of Jack,
there was a letter in my hand that I tried to read
just before I woke.
Your name smiled at me from the crumpled envelope.
Addressed to the past, unsent and unseen,
the envelope carried memories of my old self and a ratty hair tie
you claimed to remind you of me.
I peered at the polaroid picture you captured,
the one with the lights strung just high enough to be out of reach.
You were 23 and believed in God and I was 19
and didn’t believe in anything but you and me.
I felt like a forest lacking trees,
a room without a view,
and a lake you refused to swim in because the water couldn’t slightly compare
to your favorite shade of midnight blue.
I am where the rain falls.
I am the one who waters her plants until they drowned,
and that was the only way I knew how to love.
I peeled my eyes off of the letter,
lifted my head, and proudly declared to my room that
America was a nation founded by men
because it has a hard time apologizing.
I often describe you as the stillest of revolutions,
or the type of man who can never find a horse high enough to ride.
You could fall fifty stories down and barley bruise your ego,
even if your tried.
When you pulled the ocean over yourself to stay warm,
you unintentionally taught me to never love a man
more than he loves you.
I learned that if you love him more
not to let him know you do.
Learn to let him feel the love in a series of waves, not oceans,
so he can’t sink your ship if that’s all there’s left to do.
How long does sitting at a stop light feel when you’re late? Does it feel even longer when you’re on your way to say goodbye?
How cliché that we only ever kissed in my car.
You’re always either coming or leaving
but you’re never, ever staying.
A pretty mess of playful thoughts, colliding with my mind.
Someone, anyone, outline me a map to guide me back
to all the things I thought I lost
after leaving you behind.
Some things don’t always happen as gracefully as I had hoped,
and I have to learn not to feel the need to apologize for the way I grow.
This isn’t another tacky love poem, but it could have been.
Things never feel the way they are supposed to, do they?
I guess the sunset doesn’t looks as good when you try to take it home.
