Caught Ill Again
I find you nursing a headache
at the kitchen table.
I say headache,
I mean heartache.
You’re lonely and getting lonelier.
And what can I do?
That is not rhetorical.
What’s there to do?
I kiss you ‘til you’re shaking,
but not in the good way.
I do not mention the mess
(by which I mean the kitchen,
by which I mean you.)
I don’t cry even when I want to,
but I rock you lullaby when you do.
I let the silence have you
against my better judgement.
I don’t ask why
because there is no why.
There is only you,
taken ill again, smaller than ever,
suffering as inconspicuously as you can.
Little shoulders, little sobs,
my little bird, losing sleep again.
May you come home,
may you come happy,
may you come whole.
I'm worried this will come across as harsh, but it's not okay. If somebody wants to leave, you have to let them leave, no matter how hard it is. It is not okay to try to pursue a relationship with somebody who has made it clear they no longer want to. It's not okay for you to do that to somebody, to put them through that. You don't get to decide their course, and you don't get to try and convince them to change. That is not you're right, it is not your place. You have to let them go.
I know you've answered so much of this sort, and eventually, you may stop. I get it clutters your feed, but I have to know, if you will have the goodness to indulge me: is it ever okay to chase him? Even when he's left, and he's left without saying anything or saying goodbye? Is it okay to do whatever it takes to find him, after fending yourself off for 24 long hours? And if that's not okay, when is it ever? I don't mean to put responsibility on you. But I do trust your opinion.
It depends what you mean by okay. Of course it’s ‘okay’ in the general sense of the word. You are an individual and only you get to decide the course of action you take. If you want to chase him, chase him. That is your prerogative. You are entitled to do as you please, and to do as you heart instructs you. However, is it okay that you are chasing someone who is running away from you? Is it okay that you are selling yourself short? Is it okay that you’re standing in your own way? It is okay that you are preventing change, which could be positive, from occurring because you are too scared to let go of someone who wants to be let go? Is it okay that you need to ask someone’s advice when secretly you already know the answer? Is it okay that anyone should make you work so hard for them?
No, it is not okay. Listen, you’re never going to convince anyone to love you. And you shouldn’t have to. And you shouldn’t want to. Because, trust me, there is someone out there you won’t need to.
What do you do when the person you are in love with doesn't love you back?
Leave. Always leave.
Truth is, I don’t want your soft. Your tender. Your merry-go-round type love with all the same scenery. I want to be opened up. Your fingernails at my naval. Your teeth on my throat. On the throb of my pulse. I want you starving. Want you on your last legs. Want you hungry for blood. It’s not pretty. It’s not the kind of thing you tell your friends about. It’s the kind of thing that, once over, you come back normal, as if awakening from a dream in which you have been spoon-fed your every shameful desire. Why? You ask why. You ask why I need this from you, why your mouth-on-mouth, hips-meet-hips is not enough. There is no clear answer. I tell you I want to jump off cliffs with you. I want to find proof of other inhabitable planets. I want to know I’m really here. These are not answers; these are my poor attempts at explanation. These are the closest I can get to verbalizing the need. The thing that beats its fists inside me. That roars. That spits. That makes idle threats. The closest I can get:
I want to forget we are human. And that it is not enough.
I have not been present here much lately. I wish I were. I wish I were writing, but I am very still inside and it won’t come. I don’t know what this post is for. It’s not to say I’m taking a break from Tumblr, or from writing, but just to explain why I have been quieter in recent weeks. I am hoping that when the poetry returns, it will stay for a while and it won’t shut up.
#i don't know
I’m not sad about you anymore. I am surprised by this because I still love you a dangerous amount, but I no longer get sad when I see your photographs. You said to me in the car one night, you don’t come with an exit, you come with an exit wound. Sorry about that. I hope your scar tissue took an intriguing shape. I hope none of your lovers kiss you there. There were days I could hardly look at your face without crying, without unfolding into a wilted flower of yearning. Summed up in a word our relationship was only this: want. Too much of it. Enough to leave us both spent every night. Enough to know it was worrying. We did not have the love story we wanted, the one we concocted out of a run-down cottage, a Saint Bernard, and hands that never got lonely. We got instead something mediocre. Something potentially brilliant spoiled by pedestrian things. The squalor kitchen. The jealous friends. The need for reassurance. The readiness with which we grew comfortable with one another. Too comfortable, so that you stopped staring when I would tease my dress up my thighs. We were not meant to be human. We were not meant to suffer these human trials. Remember you wrote me Persephone? Remember how I kept seeing you ghostly? How awful it is to be but human, to succumb to the most trivial of things. To touch you with the TV still on. To make a scene in public. To get drunk and sad and unfaithful. Again and again and again. To repeat all the same mistakes and to continue repeating them until we got bored. Truly bored, not of one another, but of the life that surrounds us. Oh, what I’d do to meet you in another world. One where our souls take possession of our bodies and then each other’s. We would make it if such a place existed. We would have made it. This is why I’m not sad. I know in some parallel universe, if not in all of them but this one, we made it. An entry wound in each of our chests, but no sign of an exit.