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heather-butlerPoems
4. For Fear of Returning Home I curl my hands up into little ***** small concentrations of the frustration I'm boiling in. I fold in on myself like a sheet of paper I crumple and wrinkle and I haven't spoken to you in a while, now. I am a sad excuse for a great many things. But he loves me anyway: saying those things are just things, just that, even if I have been through "more than most people should." And he still tries to talk to me He still feels the need to tell me things I would be better off not knowing. "I liked cuddling with you," he tells me. I collapse in on myself and forget how to exist. We are traveling at 70 down I-55 tire treads and wooden crosses forgotten on the shoulder and I think of the monks in Vietnam who walk two thousand miles around a lake falling prostrate at every third step. And I think of how much easier that would be than to pray at the side of the interstate falling prostrate every third step onto broken glass and all that litters and glitters in the headlights-- and catches your tires as you slip into the shoulder late at night when the moon is new and absent and you are tired. I think of how much easier it would be falling prostrate every third step down the fifty miles to my bed than to promise myself that I will wake up tomorrow at all. I slept all day today, my love and I know you are disappointed-- but sometimes, most times, it doesn't really seem worth the effort. I wonder what motivates a seedling to keep striving for the surface at the promise of sunlight after spending so long in the dark. Is the sun even shining, my love? Can you promise me that one thing, that pushing through whatever hell this is that there will be sunlight when I break through? I don't want to tell you-- your love scars the side of my leg worse than his **** ever did-- *but he haunts me worse than anything before him* and I am afraid of going back home to look at the God-fearing family that sleeps ignorant.
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Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
Collection, 4
4. For Fear of Returning Home I curl my hands up into little ***** small concentrations of the frustration I'm boiling in. I fold in on myself like a sheet of paper I crumple and wrinkle and I haven't spoken to you in a while, now. I am a sad excuse for a great many things. But he loves me anyway: saying those things are just things, just that, even if I have been through "more than most people should." And he still tries to talk to me He still feels the need to tell me things I would be better off not knowing. "I liked cuddling with you," he tells me. I collapse in on myself and forget how to exist. We are traveling at 70 down I-55 tire treads and wooden crosses forgotten on the shoulder and I think of the monks in Vietnam who walk two thousand miles around a lake falling prostrate at every third step. And I think of how much easier that would be than to pray at the side of the interstate falling prostrate every third step onto broken glass and all that litters and glitters in the headlights-- and catches your tires as you slip into the shoulder late at night when the moon is new and absent and you are tired. I think of how much easier it would be falling prostrate every third step down the fifty miles to my bed than to promise myself that I will wake up tomorrow at all. I slept all day today, my love and I know you are disappointed-- but sometimes, most times, it doesn't really seem worth the effort. I wonder what motivates a seedling to keep striving for the surface at the promise of sunlight after spending so long in the dark. Is the sun even shining, my love? Can you promise me that one thing, that pushing through whatever hell this is that there will be sunlight when I break through? I don't want to tell you-- your love scars the side of my leg worse than his **** ever did-- *but he haunts me worse than anything before him* and I am afraid of going back home to look at the God-fearing family that sleeps ignorant.
heather-butler
Written by
heather-butler
American
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
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