It was you
you who burbled my thoughts
Who coruscated my facets
Who severed my gears
Who took my milk for gall
You who left me
digging caverns below my arms
as they proved to
hold no one
So useless, I became their hangman
hoisting them up
to the sky,
dangling them down
to the ground
They swung lifelessly,
as a nocuous pendulum,
condemned by all
for their open tears
It was you who couldn’t bear my weight
no matter how light it got
or how strong you grew
You who lugged my baggage on your back
and threw it off your shoulders
when you found it a foolish load
You who poured cream in my coffee
with your sweet laughter
Who gave my stomach butterflies
ridden with insomnia
It was you
who left me
lovesick and languid
biting back malaise
with an ailing tongue
Now I house snoring
butterflies with broken wings
and my coffee is black
and bitter
like me
One day,
I’ll wake up
with grooves marrying my skin
encroaching
like waves on a bay front
with gunmetal hair
sweeping
like a broom over dross
with dust nodding off
on my knees
I’ll gulp down bygone speech
putting droughts in my throat
from all the pride I swallowed
then, with a bone-dry mouth, I’ll speak again -
as winter must melt into spring -
and I won’t say “It was you”
I’ll say
“It was me.”
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 6:16 AM UTC
It was you
you who burbled my thoughts
Who coruscated my facets
Who severed my gears
Who took my milk for gall
You who left me
digging caverns below my arms
as they proved to
hold no one
So useless, I became their hangman
hoisting them up
to the sky,
dangling them down
to the ground
They swung lifelessly,
as a nocuous pendulum,
condemned by all
for their open tears
It was you who couldn’t bear my weight
no matter how light it got
or how strong you grew
You who lugged my baggage on your back
and threw it off your shoulders
when you found it a foolish load
You who poured cream in my coffee
with your sweet laughter
Who gave my stomach butterflies
ridden with insomnia
It was you
who left me
lovesick and languid
biting back malaise
with an ailing tongue
Now I house snoring
butterflies with broken wings
and my coffee is black
and bitter
like me
One day,
I’ll wake up
with grooves marrying my skin
encroaching
like waves on a bay front
with gunmetal hair
sweeping
like a broom over dross
with dust nodding off
on my knees
I’ll gulp down bygone speech
putting droughts in my throat
from all the pride I swallowed
then, with a bone-dry mouth, I’ll speak again -
as winter must melt into spring -
and I won’t say “It was you”
I’ll say
“It was me.”
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