I’ve never looked out
and saw a man
who looked like all he wanted was affection
I’ve never looked out and saw
a heart I thought I might enjoy
but eventually break
because I think I need more than affection
I need a twin
a thousand times before I need a lover
That kid is beautiful
But he’s not calling me higher
Sometimes, days are a whirlwind,
Of possibilities, exchanges, people's faces.
Silently observing; energy stretched thin,
The sunlight sinks, leaving only traces.
You close your eyes after the day has decided to die down.
The weight of your exhaustion, so heavy, you could drown.
But before you have a chance to embrace the dreams that dangle above your head,
It's another day, and another whirlwind at the foot of your bed.
Every night I hope
I find my message in a bottle,
but really it's just to sext
this hex away. Monday
nights are lonely on
that hook-up culture,
Juvenile Tinder App--
Swiper no swiping, but
I'm still that little girl
cowering from the screen
where someone will definitely take
my soul valuables
But if these be masochistic flames
to my emotional Hell--
Rage on, commence the fuckboy
parade, their drumbeat matching
attitude transposed into cryptic Finsta
posts and 3am Snapchat stories.
You made me feel like Lana,
fervid and fated in
a ride or die façade which
crumbled to Taylor's fake femme
fatale "narrative." Ripping
off the wings of our swan song
doesn't make you Frank Sinatra, even
though you crooned a tune of Love and Marriage
in between my sheets; those were odes
to blanket you (not me).
Isolation is not eternal
And certainly not is love-
Both presence of, and lack of, love
Will fade eventually- it's a matter of time
Loneliness is not without words.
But, maybe you do not need romance-
The gods have already built you complete
And you may laugh at these lost souls
Still wandering in damnation
In search of their other half.
Or perhaps you conjecture-
That you found yours but it was
Not to be, and now it is a broken memory
But fret not- for that was a lesson
Rather, on how not to love
And wiser still you may find joy.
But say you have, and all is right
Rarely does the world leave it be
And, complete, you will be broken-
Perhaps, those who will never find love
Are better off forever alone.
I sit. Pasted to my seat. Searching his eyes for something, anything.
Please give me something.
My food is fighting a war with my heart in my throat. My heart is exhausted, once worn on my sleeve, and then given back to me by him. Shredded and ravaged by those words – his words, “I don’t think we should date anymore”.
Seven words that are inconsequential, frail and harmless when muttered on their own.
Seven words that he strung together to make a sullen bracelet of destruction. And how dreadfully beautiful that chain looks secured around my neck. Gasping.
That jagged piece of jewellery which he kept on him. With him. Silently guarding his tragic trinket that would eventually be introduced as the lead actor in the character assassination performance I would perform on myself. For myself.
I sit. Saturated. Bloated and empty at the same time.
My heart sighs, except it’s not my heart but an exhale of who I am. Who I once was. It comes from my gut. I can’t be releasing anxiety because that’s my best friend now.
Anxiety now takes its form in shaking me awake to sit and reminisce, collectively with depression, about every word that was transferred from my mouth to his heart. Reminding me that my fleeting words and desperate, outrageous cries must have been pulled from my vocal chords, crushed and then swept away before they were processed, translated and understood. Please understand me.
Could my words have evaporated in the sheets we shared with so many others?
Were they swallowed by the shallow mouths I allowed to roam his body or were they intercepted by the unfamiliar hands I allowed to explore my skin?
I sit. No longer able available to him.
I sit with his bracelet, permanently affixed to everything I see.
I need to stand up.
Lady Roxy keeps her lover private,
hidden in a box under the bed.
The only conclusion one can arrive at,
she prefers something that buzzes instead.
Lady Roxy doesn't bother with dating,
just an occasional change of battery.
No reason to hang around waiting,
for compliments and blushing flattery.
Lady Roxy's lover does as she bids,
deftly wielded as a weapon of pleasure.
With no exchange of bodily fluids,
'tis truly her most joyous treasure.
© Pagan Paul (10/10/17)