Next time
I will take my
time
with you.
I was
too impatient.
Greedy
for you.
You are my
favorite flavor.
Rush to
swallow your
thoughts
before they are complete.
Devour
your gaze
where it falls
leaving famine
where it does not
reach.
Next time I’ll take my
time
since I can be very impatient
when it comes to
you.
But for now I will gorge.
Bottomless ache chokes. No recipient. Hurls you into an abyss of loneliness. Leviathan ever awaits.
Suppress and wrestle. One day, she bursts forth, destroying sensibility. Uproots everything you know. Sense of self. Sense of worth. Timing. Appropriateness. Decorum.
She will smother with tentacles tightening with each rejection. Indiscriminate betrayer of what you hold dear.
Until one day you learn to not fight her. Feed her. Let her leave love trails everywhere. She will do it anyway. This way, you’re less bruised.
Inch
by inch
I will recover
myself
and the parts of me
that remain with you,
I will replace.
Cobbled together from
bubblegum,
hip shards.
Grafted onto
what is left
until I am something
not what I knew.
It can be a shock to realize how unimportant you really are, especially to someone who is a big deal to you. Where they leave an indelible imprint on your existence, you register about as much as a gnat: annoying, briefly smashed and flicked off with a shudder as they amble their way through life, forgetting you as soon as they meet you.
I will never know the cause of this imbalance. What if you were someone to whom everyone was significant yet you were the opposite to them? What would you do?
Just so you know, you were not that much of anything and no mark was left.
Oh, to be unimportant, dismissed, dismissible, that is what creates the crazy lady, a scorned creature. Problem is that the scorn ravages just you and no one else because, all in all, even they are not as important as you are to you. You are forever the target of your own enmity, a magnet for pain and stress. Endless stream of poison.
So let go. Free yourself.
You are nothing to him and it’s ok.
You’re so used to being a force of reckoning. Everything quails in the wake of your presence. Then, there you go: you don’t even register and there’s nothing you can do about it.
You can always Rumpelstiltskin yourself or something but that would only leave you dead or living ripped asunder. Would be hard to walk, right?
So pick up your ego that spills out of your eviscerated soul and hobble as you heal. Crawl first. Grovel. Just hold on. Breathe shallowly until pieces of you stop slipping out mixed with intestines. One day.
I so thank you for making me feel giddy again, believing and feeling so lucky at my gift that I could keep unwrapping forever. Each layer would caress my heart, make me ache and give me solace because I had you.
Thank you for touching me with such a steady hand of ownership, acceptance and promise, often on the small of my back. Thank you for reigniting my adoration of music though, now, you two are painfully connected. Thank you for the privilege of that moment that no else could attain.
I unthank you for the last incomplete kiss, not allowing me to swallow you and drown in tasting you with a thirst I could never, would never desire to quench.
Unthank you for that which was not and could have been.
Unthank you for no days of sneaking mushrooms onto your plate or scoring the rejects at dinner. Unthank you for no birthdays where I would bless the day you were made for me.
Unthank you for all the mornings I will not wake up entwined in your arms, remembering our silly jousting accompanied by that sweetness that I almost had and always prayed for.
Unthank you for missing morning breath kisses so deep you would know my bottomless, unconditional desire for you. Unthank you for this hole you burrowed yet never filled, leaving me more than hollow. Bereft.
I un&thank you for reviving my dying heart only for me to kill it again.
One day I will love you and that day I dread.
That day I will admit that I have always loved you. Before I knew you and long after. And then what?
Until then, let me turn from my impotence. Let me escape in slick saliva. Tentative. Begging for reprieve. Not there. Not now. Not yet. Please.
What will I lose when I already know? Were, are, never mine.
Losing you again is nothing new. It was always with me.
Ecstasy ends when kisses there disappear. I panic even now as your scent recedes.
Kissing you. Kissing you.
I keep forgetting to not remember.
Your name greets me at every turn.
Back aches where you rubbed and I shivered.
I am plagued by things of you that are not you. If only I were plagued by you.
I would want no cure.
I really don’t know where it started but I am utterly and totally infatuated with birthdays and not just mine. Once you tell me your birthday, I will never forget it. I’ll plug it in somewhere and your birthday will forever be appreciated.
I love birthdays because it’s the one time of every year of totally sanctioned self-centeredness. It’s the one time where I say “Come play with me. You have to. It’s my birthday!” Very few people have the wherewithal to turn down the birthday girl. My birthdays tend to be a whirlwind of themed mayhem & elation:
I rack my brain every year to come up with an appropriate theme and it’s corresponding events/actions that result in enjoyment for anyone who joins the birthday train. In turn, because I believe that everyone should gallivant with me for my birthday, I will do the same for you. I know it’s your most special of days every year and you deserve all that comes with it.
On your birthday, you have earned nothing. You are celebrated just for being being born. The way it should be. When you were born, you didn’t earn a thing. You were fed and you survived simply because you were born and you had a will to live. It may not be a perfect beginning but you’re here now so something worked.
Every birthday is a reminder that you are worthy of celebration for no reason other than making it to another year. Each successive year compounds that victory and warrants an escalation of merriment. You deserve it because you were born.
I dedicate this to the ones that almost broke me. Thank you.
I dedicate this to the ones that squeezed my heart, delighting in its squishy demise, only for it to resurrect with Play-Doh resilience.
To you who I never got to love.
To beloveds that always scrape up my battered everything and never react to my tears.
To warriors who kick down doors when I retreat and think I can only be small.
To my folly that always leads to great fortune.
I dedicate this to scar tissue preferred over death.
Thank you.
Tessism.com 