There Are No Poems About
What it’s like to pick up broken shards at 2 A.M after you’ve thrown the glass.
Getting four stitches in the knee. A trail of blood from the bathroom to the kitchen.
The gin-soaked girl who pours hydrogen peroxide on your skin, but can’t quite find the cut.
Realizing your bad decisions had no good intentions. Trying to apologize but the thunder outside is louder.
Sitting in your apartment after the noise has died down. You wait for him to run back to you, a grenade in his teeth, but sleep is the only aftermath.
Waking up every morning after he’s left, afraid you’ve gone rabid. Tentatively, seeing if you can drink the water. Letting the mailman put his finger in your mouth. Praying that you won’t
Bite down.
Planning to fake an emergency, costume blood in your pocket. The lectern is empty when you arrive. Everyone’s gone home.
How you keep showing up, day after day, and maybe it’ll be different this time.
That one day, subtle and hushed and without warning, there is no longer a tension in your neck and back. You have to wonder, if this is what happiness feels like. A lightness, a vertigo, everything off balance.
You get in the car and it’s just quiet.
When you slip your first “I love you,” into the middle of a sentence, because you know for the first time exactly what that means. Not theatrics, not a prize to give out, but the irrefutable and obvious truth.
When you push your fingers through the mesh. You break the screen door. You kiss someone for the thousandth time and there’s still a tiny volcano in your stomach.
When you run to the end of the street and punch that tree. Expecting the blood to flow to your ears, the flush of adrenaline, the screaming. But there’s only a warm darkness, sluicing in your stomach.
You go home and it’s just quiet.
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Stock photo from pixabay
Self portrait by me canon t51
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