"irreparably" poems
she brings me pancakes and lights me a cigarette
my ***** are cement and icicles form on my toes
she opens the curtain to a dying dove on the balcony
the banks are closed and the stock market has crashed
the periscope lens, so lucidly balanced, has fallen
irreparably into the crypt of a dream
i take a bite of an apple and stare into the mid-morning sun
after bagging the bird, she drapes herself across my chest
she is worshiped like a cradle, or a gravestone in a thunder storm
in her ecstasies, a prism, a poem fits like a glove
as the sunlight warms her ******* she heaves remnants
of last night's whiskey into my adam's apple and it burns me
the words she struck me with still sting in my ears
her fingerprints remain on my back and my bathroom mirror
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
Hugging knees in darkest corners
Leaving love behind
Sinking so deeply, light is lost
Spirit broken
Heart shattered
Soul torn
Before the mending could begin
Before the pieces could be swept up
Smacked to the ground
Crushed into powder
Irreparably damaged
Irrevocably heartless
Too much love begets too much torment
Agonizing over unowned burdens
Cold shadows become welcoming
As warmth feels more like Hell
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 12:55 PM UTC
A drab drop drips
Downed casualty
Down casually.
A sulfuric gust cycles
In three fly-by nights.
A gust hoping,
A breeze yearning to dab a wet tear off a moistened spring cheek.
Floating by on a wisp of breath,
Breathed once by the blessed. Now irreparably tainted, then incomprehensible anew:
Treated by the respirations of the perspiring, expending breath on czarist ears, aspiring;
Cured by the tongues of the insatiably dying
And by those primary soothe-ers, invisibly crying.
Alveoli gripping that sine qua non of civilization
Until they must release the once-oxygen into the hills of Kyivan Rus.
A first breath and second
As much as a penultimate and final.
And witness to the chronology that led to such a
Bloodbath-blessed blast
As this.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
Every year now, I note the differences:
the changes in the stones,
the retreating car park and what
is new to the waves.
It is slight. You try to hide it by
presenting the same places and
lacing them with memories that
all correspond.
But you are changing.
You take new beatings, and I can't
help but wonder if we are alike.
The process of erosion has caught
us both, and year by year,
cliff by cliff, it's wearing us down.
It was always supposed to happen,
but what if you change too much?
What will happen when you change
irreparably, irreconcilably?
Even now you are only an
imaginary home, so defamiliarized
from the dream I demand.
I know you promised me nothing.
But I had a deal you didn't know about
and you've ceased to make me happy.
I can't help but be a little angry
with you for letting the
storm break you down.
But is it really you, or is it me
who has done the changing?
Is it not my eyes and my erosion?
Is it not the attrition and abrasion
and the long shore drift
that has welled up inside my own soul?
Is it you or I?
How can we know?
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
At this point in life whoever you’re with or whoever you’re gonna meet is irreparably broken
I know this cause so am I
I’ve been in therapy consistently for almost a year now and off and on for several years before this and I still haven’t gotten it quite figured out
the damage done by past relationships follows swiftly
like a dark shadow I constantly see the pain out of the corner of my eyes
I don’t know how to help someone else when I’m hurting too
so stumbling and falling is natural when you can’t see which direction your feet are going
maybe some of us weren’t meant to be destined for greatness or great love
maybe we’re not all meant to find true happiness or peace
maybe we’re not meant to live without the anxiety because at this point, it’s a part of who we are
and if we lose that too, then we’d lose ourselves completely
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 7:45 AM UTC
Words aren't bandaids
for wounds of the heart
and promises aren't plane rides
against the distance that keeps us apart
Your absence is the loudest sound
I keep its' echoes for when you're not around
You can only send
so many postcards
before words like "love"
become a language so dead
your own tongue has forgotten how to speak it
You can only mend
a heart so many times
before "irreparably damaged"
becomes a definition on its' label
before you start to pretend
that the space between them and you
isn't tearing the two
apart
how can it be
with so many around
I still want you here with me
You cannot build a body
solely from pretty words
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
Pain disfigures into numbness in the silence that screams at me
like so many crazed thoughts.
A heated state cools into quiet resentment.
Regardless of how I feel, how you do,
this night has changed us irreparably.
How can you say these things are equal?
Where do you get off?
Your half-sung apologies fall heavy on deaf ears.
Can you feel me ignoring you?
You think I let you down?
I needed to do something with my hands.
You
have shown to me
the inconsistency of love.
Nothing is unconditional.
If it were, I wouldn't even be here fighting with you.
Those words, also labile,
were the truth in the moment,
regardless of tomorrow.
I may love you,
but I hated you then.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 12:34 AM UTC
I try to resist.
I'm not giving in to the temptation
Of going back to you again.
You're standing there
Arms seemingly open
Warm smile on your face.
But I know I can't.
I'll come off as clingy, needy,
Desperate.
So I repeat to myself
In the head,
"You can live without him."
Why am I doing this?
Because I know
You'll take my heart
And throw it forcefully onto the ground,
Making it shatter
Into a thousand pieces
Irreparably broken.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
missed opportunities
spill from my lips
like forgotten tea roses on a lone winter's day
as i watch you leave without so much as glancing back
i remember that this neglect is brought upon by no one but myself
i dream of love like it's the last remaining shred of worth that i could ever gain
yet i wither away from your foreign gaze as if you could destroy me with just a glance
my open palms can not trace their way North
so they merely end up planted in my pockets with a downtrodden gaze
the unassuming warmth of your eyes, burns
as i avoid you as if one look towards your slender shadow
would render me irreparably broken
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
Ten thousand nights have laid themselves down before me
and I have played the princess in the tower oh so well.
The perfect aryan child tucked up behind veils of delusional dream,
to sleep to wander into places where damsels save themselves.
And in such splendor the masks do fall like autumn leaves,
crisp and changed - each fallen and forgotten under foot.
But hair grew much too fast beneath garments as mole hills became mountains
and irony of ironies I caught my goldie locks in a leaf covered bear trap-
ensnared in biting pain I did wait for my knight and trusty steed -
but my prince was the villain; a scenario I was unprepared for
lost in delusion while he mawled my once ivory skin,
till it bled; my blood irreparably tarnished by his seed.
And the nights kept falling one by one,
slowly to their knees or else dying a savage death by blade or flame -
and for my part I have lived them.
Unprepared for such madness, armed only with fairytales
I have fought a battle I never could win.
And the people came. I let them in, wove threads of trust, only
to taste the milk of human kindness and choke on its bitterness.
And so I shrank from the world like the tortoise to its shell
and I climbed my tower, bolted the door - I cut my hair short.
So I sit by a tiny window with animal-kind to kiss my scars.
People grab at me but I am out of reach and there I shall stay
some day the Prince shall come and from now on I will trust only in Him.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
I keep hearing this idea that true love takes your breath away, but i don’t agree.
He didn’t take away anything. He was the one who reminded me to breathe when i’d forgotten how. He was the one who knew my heart better than I did & reminded it to beat when I felt irreparably broken. He gave me more than I ever hoped for, & that is a love most people will never understand & a love I will never let go. I have the person I never want to stop making memories with.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 12:24 AM UTC
Your scratches and bites excited me at first
The gentle clawing and nibbling my neck
But you didn't stop there.
You got harder and harder until I bled
I asked you to stop
You bit harder.
It didn't take long for me
to enjoy the pain again
Because it was you
Ours bodies embraced.
That wasn't enough for you
You saw my enjoyment
and had to change it
You saw my pleasure
from your genetic violence
You wanted to hurt me, irreparably.
You attacked my body first, then moved to my brain, heart, soul
Your words burnt like fire
Your tongue lacerated my soul like a whip
Constant agony.
Unrequited love disguised with manipulation
You were pretending all along
And yet I stayed
Now, I am gone.
Forever yours in body, your little *********
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
It's like when you have the stomach flu,
and the first thing you toss up is your favorite,
homemade, blueberry muffins. How after that,
even though you've eaten them for 19 years,
just the thought of violet-speckled, baked goods
makes you want to hunch over the nearest toilet.
I don't remember when I stopped being able
to stomach irony.
All I know is I spend every morning gargling
minty antiseptics, trying to rid my mouth from
the aftertaste of dreams, but still its ghost lingers
in the back of my throat. I try to wash it down with the
taste of his **** and the smell of his cologne. Thinking,
I guess, that one day I'll be able to love him like he deserves.
As opposed to wondering what happened between us.
Your catchphrase was," There's nothing to say."
It wasn't until now that I understood. I wanted so
badly to find the right words. Wanted so bad to mend
what was irreparably broken. But you knew that every
time you opened your mouth, you were in danger
of coughing out your heart. Of spewing out a ******
mess of feelings that I didn't yet understand.
Now, as you come to me with olive branches, all I can
do is choke on my own aorta. So understand when I sound
like your broken record, that I'm just trying to hold it together.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 2:06 AM UTC
The only thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is that love is inescapable.
Love will find you. Find you naked, shaking in your darkest caverns clinging to heartbreak and faded polaroids with trembling hands. Find you locked up in towers fortified with fear. Find you upside-down. Find you alone once again walking the streets at one in the morning praying for street lights to fade behind you. Find you standing before tombstones or ice cream trucks or a preacher man. Find you hiding from your mother or God or both. Love will find you.
Love will take you. Take you to the place you parked your car that night and noticed for the first time the way their skin in the moonlight had the unspoken power to shatter your own. Take you through the annals and ventricles of your heart and peel away at the scars like super-glued band-aids. Take you to the hills and home again. Love will take you.
Love will bind you. Bind you to your family like the pages in the cookbook your mother used to prepare your favorite meal. Bind you to the girl who makes you shake when she's cold or the boy with eyes warm and clear blue like hot springs. Bind you to yourself. Love will bind you.
Love will break you. Break you down to jigsaw puzzle pieces your grandparents attempt on Friday nights, hands shaking with arthritis, and leave you incomplete. Break you away from your callused convictions and shove a blunt fist into your softest spots and leave you covered in scratches. Break you the way earthquakes break buildings or alcohol breaks families and bones; unforgivably, irreparably. Love will break you.
Love, desperate and strong, simple and tenacious, fiery and fierce.
Love will find you, take you, bind you, and break you.
And you will not escape.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
As a child I did not know whether it was the act itself or the knowledge that I was the receptacle for malevolence and cruelty that made me so vulnerable. At first I thought it was God's punishment for something I had done. I took an inventory, desperately seeking the deed that triggered the retribution. But I could not identify a single act. Even my accumulated errors, transgressions and unkindness’s did not exact the cost. Then I understood: if I could not isolate a deed, or pattern of deeds, commanding the punishment, it must be me. It is not what I did. It is who I was...a fundamentally, intrinsically and irredeemably bad little girl. I negotiated my adolescence and early adulthood with the mathematical symbol for "less than" (<) attached.
I would like to be able to write that I am no longer negotiating my adulthood with the same mathematical symbol attached. But that would be a lie. It is pervasive. It is formidable. And if I do not keep it contained, I am so afraid it will be debilitating….I've been down that road a time or two. At times it has enveloped me, penetrating my pores and drowning everything essential and vital inside.
Undisturbed, it is docile, sated. But aroused by even the slightest hint of beauty or strength or grace it is a painful reminder that I am...somehow...contemptible...that I am still fundamentally, intrinsically and incorrigibly...what? Flawed, imperfect & bad? You may say, "But we are all flawed and imperfect. And our flaws and imperfections make us more interesting...more truly beautiful...more human." And perhaps you are right, but this inexorable deprivation makes me somehow subhuman... less than human...permanently broken. I am a receptacle for malice.
I skillfully deflect praise directed my way, an effort to soothe the inescapable conflict inside. Moderate praise induces a subtle twinge of embarrassment; more effusive praise incites the consuming and agonizing feeling that I am irreparably damaged, hopelessly broken. It has contaminated, compromised and diminished every accomplishment, soiled every success. People sometimes tell me that I am humble and that it is an admirable trait. But the modesty and humility they identify helps me to mask the mortification stirring inside. I have gotten so good at hiding it from others that I have nearly learned to conceal it even from myself.
At least that is what it feels like...right now.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
Though none of those who should know me have
Shown any indication that they see
Though those with whom I should be safe
Have never spared the time of day on me
I come to them broken now
I come knowing they may never read
I come to them shattered, beaten down
And this is my plea:
Save me, save me
Don't save me, please
I've lived and loved
And none of it came free
Hold me, hold me
Don't hold me at all
I've cried and tried
To break my own fall
And it's now that they open their eyes
And yet, they do not see
But it's now that I've had enough
Of survival and surviving
I'm ready to stop my heart
I'm prepared, never again, to sing
I'm ready to still my hand
And this is my plea:
Love me, love me
Don't love me, I beg
Until my blood is cold
And the last nail is in my coffin
Forgive me, I'm sorry
Don't accept my apologies
Or read the letter I will write
In the dawn of the morning
It is now that I consider how
Best to spare myself pain
Who will attend my funeral and
Who will attend my wake
It is now that I contemplate
The shock of the unfortunate
Who may find my lifeless body
Long after I've sent myself away.
I will not beg for a savior
I do not require pity
I will not be persuaded to stay here
Not in the country, suburbs, or city
I will not think on those who will hurt
For what I've decided or the words I've spoken
I am shattered irreparably
I will leave as I came: broken.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
The song played-- muffled, hesitant,
As if the tabletop jukebox
Seemed unsure of the tune’s suitability,
As out of place and time as ourselves,
It being Wednesday morning three A.M.
At the all-night diner on the Klondike Road
(The mills, going full-bore down the road in Montmorenci Falls
Making such a place viable, indeed necessary),
But we laughed loudly and nonchalantly
Between bites of nearly adequate cheeseburger,
Ostensibly unaware of all those inevitabilities
Which were tangible but unspoken, indeed unspeakable,
This being the last of the last summer not careworn,
Textbooks to be exchanged for neckties,
Plastic sandals swapped for sensible flats,
Other lives to take flight in other places,
A mere handful of evenings remaining
Before the clumsy process of untying
All that which had been loose ends from the beginning.
Would I go back? In a sense, it does not matter.
There was always a laundry list of reasons
That it could not be, cannot be, will not be:
Irreparably meshed gears of relocations and reconciliations,
Gordian knots of logic and desire.
Still, in my dreams, I often run like a madman,
Chest burning as my sneakers slap the pavement in the darkness,
Back toward the diner, but it has been razed to the ground
(Likely the case, for all I know,
What with the mills silent and padlocked all these years)
And I paw madly, feverishly through the rubble
In search of some remains of those vinyl chanteuses of love songs,
Those epitaphs of our failures,
Those three-minute odes
To our compromised and conditional successes.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
One eye lined a rippling void in our favor
Two lights aimed to dither coherence astray
A spark may be one
A pyre, another
Two methods by which we may aptly narrate
These volumes which artifice rendered impassive
Some lifetimes ago
As if carved out of stone
Upon faces that masons could not replicate
We taxed ourselves harsh by indulging old spirits
But graver the crime was to give them a name
The deepest transgression of all, incorporeal
Our memories in the end gave us away
Yes, nostalgia seeps in through the gaps in our logic
To shepherd the currents beneath those blue waves
As if tides could be altered by such visitation
And oceans stood frozen with forces concealed by
Some gravities borne of celestial weight
Reluctant to wake and depart Colorado
My surrogate mother
Our canvas to paint
Expressions whipped dry by the skirt of her leather
And eardrums wrung pierced by the crags and the scree
If I leave now this portal may vanish forever
I could leave my sins here in the chill of the Springs
Release them down mineshaft chutes long since abandoned
In futile attempts to abscond the unclean
And rise to leave haunts of offenses unstated
To come crawling back from the dead
Southbound with me
Hold out, I was told
With arms to receive
You'll make sure to keep your hands steady for me
I'm soaked to the core with my soul and voice breaking
With eyes for your heart and its formless cascade
And my pail with dozens of holes to redeem
An abundance of squalls brewed behind both those seams
The light crosses your path
And you won't look away
When I question by which laws such mirrors are made
And it all seems so cruel that we're drawn here to suffer
To be teased and transfixed by what glimmers remain
I can drum up what strengths I have left to ignite you
I'll shout even louder when you forget your name
I'll relearn every way that I've known how to love you
But we're taught to process what we cannot maintain
Yes, our hearts are irreparably torn in this way
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 8:29 PM UTC
i will always associate back flips
with my first "boyfriend" in the third
grade who has probably now grown
up to be the type of guy who takes
pictures of himself shirtless in the bathroom
mirror and tells his girlfriend that she's pretty
but not quite as pretty as he is.
i will always associate playgrounds
with my elementary school sweetheart
and hearing my favorite love song and
him walking five steps behind and defending
me when he thought i needed it.
i will always associate the rain
with wet tables and standing up
and laughing with friends and talking
and being wrapped in someone's arms
for the very first time and hearing "i missed you."
i will always associate "almosts" with the guy
i never really realized i wanted until it was too late
and seeing him walk around holding the hand of the
girl who wanted him when i didn't and seeing him kiss
her the way he wanted to kiss me once upon a time
and with ******** up really really irreparably bad this time.
i will always associate short time periods with the two weeks
when i belonged to someone I never expected to want,
when he kissed me like i mattered,
when he held me as though he would never let go
and then told me we should "take a break" and
come back to us when the "time was right."
and i will always associate happiness with these times
when i was loved and wanted and needed for just a little while
and believing for just a moment that i was special.
and you know what else?
i will always associate failure with the entrance of something better
i will associate failure with a narrow escape because if it were meant
for me to have then i would have had it but it's not so i don't.
i will always associate life with beautiful complications.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
The Torn Cartwheelers
“In the first place, let me treat of the nature of man and what has happened to it; for the original human nature was not like the present, but different. The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there was man, woman, and the union of the two, having a name corresponding to this double nature, which had once a real existence, but is now lost. In the second place, the primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a circle; and he had four hands and four feet, one head with two faces, looking opposite ways, set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four ears, two privy members, and the remainder to correspond. Now the sexes were three, and such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three;- and the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round: like their parents.” -- The symposium, Plato
- Back when we were cart-wheelers;
we rolled in unison with braided spines.
A woven chain of muscular fibre;
our interlaced vertebrae
assembled a duality of one.
- Made of moon, we lived as stars.
Invincible wholes, we felt like Gods
Free-wheeling on our myriad limbs,
tumbling through clutching forests,
Basking in our lack of direction.
- We grew arrogant,
Toes tight in our four shoes.
We hungered for dominion, impregnable,
Never conceived of life apart;
how we might be broken.
So we were reckless; scorned Gods.
Bulging with trepidation, they conspired
to put us in place.
- Ripped down the middle, we bled
until roughly stitched with forlorn seams.
Our unfurled marrow now two in place of one;
Female, male, we were earth-scattered.
- Jumbled and lost, we torn cart-wheelers
Were compelled to walk.
- Inconsolable, we wilted,
Unable to function as halves,
we combed the earth for our whole;
Calling vainly on spindle limbs.
- A handful triumphed and united,
Only to drown in euphoria when
their entwined locked bodies, starved,
Yearning only for fusion.
- Now we are accustomed to solitude;
dissipated stitches left tougher skin.
- Until we meet a silhouette of our half
Imperfect but concurring
our jarring zips catch often;
some irreparably,
But we feel again the semblance of solitude,
Crave to be two halves of the moon.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 4:43 PM UTC
*It has been four days
since we talked.
I do not mean to gawk,
but I have been staring
at this empty screen,
tearing at my thinning hair
with nostrils flaring,
looking for a sign
that this is not
the beginning of yet
another falling out.
We are going through
a drought:
things to talk about are
few and far between,
and there is a lot of
"I don't understand
what you mean" and
"You're only fifteen,
you wouldn't get it anyways."
You are my dry land
and I am drowning
without your hand
to pull me up to the surface.
I can't pretend
that I am your best friend,
though you are surely mine.
I'd like to know if
you think it is the end
this time,
but I am so nervous
that I can't
take my shaking fingers
and ask the question;
I am much too desperate
and the suggestion
that I could be the reason
we don't even chat anymore
lingers like a bad tattoo.
I need to draw the line
between when it's
time to move on
and being perfectly fine.
I know I'm lying to myself
and I know I'll try to mend something
that might be irreparably bent
with only my own desire
and a bit of twine;
because I could never say goodbye.
Especially not
if there's a chance
you're still mine.*
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
*Her abandonment was absolute,
eyes vacant and glassy,
windows to an echoing room of emptiness.
Her forehead sagged like an unrepaired ceiling with frowns and wrinkles;
she had fingers the colour of old whitewash.
Her hair sighed like old wood in a breeze,
the scars on her arms like rusted nails on ply.
Her heart creaked and ached with old timber;
an old soul, filled with sawdust and ash.
Soon enough
she would rot and collapse
to the earth,
weighed down by disrepair and neglect;
she would never find the strength
to get up
and be filled again
with children’s laughter.
Never to be called home again,
just the broken remains of a tomb,
irreparably
and completely
forgotten.*
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC