This Poem is a Lie

August 19, 2011
he had the impetuosity to tell me what I think
while he hadn’t known me for what felt like years, and years, and years
and your soft responses lingered in my ears,
still . . .

your sweet nothings
will mean nothing to me, when I’m
curled up in a ball, on the floor, screaming, and screaming, and screaming
and crying, and panicking, and twisting violently from side to side
like a stuffed puppet on a string, casually tossed back and forth
by a disinterested mistress.
and when my cruel, vicious words drop, involuntarily, onto a page
he’s on the receiving end.
and he comforts me.
and makes me stop crying.
and he thinks I’m insane, but he never tells me so
because, after all this time, he still doesn’t realize that I love him;
but, he cares about me, and he’s
unwittingly
been taking care of me
without really knowing how, or why
since I was eleven years old.

well, I’ve grown up, since then
without him, without them.
and you and I, we talk, we think, alike.
you think I’ve told you all my secrets.
maybe I have, maybe I will
but when it’s two a.m., and I’m terrified out of my mind
I won’t call you.
you haven’t been there. you won’t be here.
so you think it’s all good and fine
to just go out, and give me your mind
but you don’t have to deal with the consequences -
he will.

or maybe I just want to break your heart
because I hate you for not breaking mine.
and maybe this would’ve turned out fine
if I wasn’t such a screwed up, crazy person.
you didn’t know that? you don’t know that? do you?

I never told you about
the pain,
the fear,
the terror,
that you can’t control, and it wells up inside and chokes you
this enormous feeling inside your chest
and all you want to do is scream
and scream, and scream, and scream, and scream -
but you’re stuck.
paralyzed.
and all I can do is take his hand.
close my eyes.
and breathe.


breathe.




breathe.







breathe.










breathe.












breathe.
(just teenage angst?
what a joke.)

when I wake up in the morning
he’s forgiven me.
(or forgotten me, whichever is more convenient)
and we continue on with life like it never happened.
breathing.

you asked me if I was going to stick around
maybe I will, maybe I do
but it sure as hell won’t be for you.
wishes wait for coming true:
and I don’t even really know what you mean
in all honesty.
whatever “terms” you’re thinking in;
well, you were never in any danger of me
falling for you
in any sort of term you’d like to think in.

I’m probably going to end up marrying him, someday
not today, I hope to God.
and somedays this is okay with me
and somedays I want to just kick the wall, because he’s such a baby
but he’s my baby.
just like you have your babies.
my baby doesn’t understand me at all
(not the way you do).
but I’ll probably marry him, regardless.

I’ll invite you to the wedding.
you can see me pretty in my white dress
and marvel at the contrast with my red hair.
you can wonder if the secrets you’ve told me are still safe
when I’ve promised to tell him everything.
just like I’ve had to wonder.

for all you profess it’s your worst fear
that little girls who dress up in their mother’s make-up
will fall madly in love with you
you never worried that might happen to me.
why?
was I too young? too mature? too smart? too me?
I understood you too well?
as if love is a rational feeling I could control with logic.
guess you knew it was irrational.
guess you knew you had to trust me not to.
love you, I mean.
we were fools to think we could control our emotions,
but you are such a fool.

have you noticed that
this poem is a lie?
not because I’ve lied.
but because I’ve, once again,
given meaning to something that doesn’t have meaning.
because if you read this you’ll scratch your head
and frown.
and ask, “What the hell is she talking about?”
because these thoughts never occurred to you.
it was always just: /me. you./
an undefined relationship. we just got along well.
you had your life. we both knew that.
I had my life. we both knew that.
you thought I knew that.
and it never occurred to you I might think otherwise.
don’t worry.
I never thought otherwise.

this poem is a lie.
because I lied.





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