Don't tell me the pieces of us
fell from my careless hands.
As if I was the Medusa
who turned your veins bitter,
and your skin to stone.
Anxiously hunched shoulders
can only hold up a relationships for so long
before giving under the pressure
of resentful looks and strained silences.
It wasn't I that scattered
eggshells in our home,
ear posed for gentle cracking in the
unfaithful hours of the morning.
My hands spread wide still aren't
enough to cradle your expectations,
and here I am, struggling to hold on to the edge,
as the gap between reasonable and unattainable widens.
I won't be blamed for leaving.
Not when your eyes have held ghosts for far too long.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
Don't tell me the pieces of us
fell from my careless hands.
As if I was the Medusa
who turned your veins bitter,
and your skin to stone.
Anxiously hunched shoulders
can only hold up a relationships for so long
before giving under the pressure
of resentful looks and strained silences.
It wasn't I that scattered
eggshells in our home,
ear posed for gentle cracking in the
unfaithful hours of the morning.
My hands spread wide still aren't
enough to cradle your expectations,
and here I am, struggling to hold on to the edge,
as the gap between reasonable and unattainable widens.
I won't be blamed for leaving.
Not when your eyes have held ghosts for far too long.
Any ideas for the title?
Request permission to use this poem