I am misery’s mistress,
but she will not commit,
so I spend each night alone,
scribbling my name into the pages of an endless atlas,
asking myself with a choked expression,
where I have been all this time.
It feels like another lifetime since I pleaded with the world not to end,
but I was not as persuasive as my previous dumb luck had allowed me to believe I was,
and I filled up with fire,
cremated and crying.
The world ended, and I was expected to just carry on,
because she was “just a friend” to everyone who didn’t know enough to know better,
and all I can do is hope that she’ll wait for her “friend”,
wherever she went.
She isn’t alone.
I wrote down the names of everyone I’ve ever loved and lost,
and now I’m plagued by paper cuts,
papering over the cracks,
because I’ve got to carry on.
I listened to Patti LuPone singing in that hospital,
to those sad boys,
because I needed to cry,
and until she met my gaze,
it wouldn’t come.
She is my healer.
She doesn’t know,
but it is six am,
and she is saving my life.
I allowed myself to cry for actors on a screen,
because they haven’t seen the mess I’ve been in,
and they don’t know what I am and what I’ve done.
It’s so safe to cry for them.
It doesn’t hurt to cry for them.
Was I really so bad?
Don’t I deserve a place, and some peace?
I hate that I have always been hailed as “the strong one”,
because I never was.
I was just there,
afraid to say no,
afraid to show weakness,
and so, I fell into the role.
I can’t be angry.
It isn’t fair,
but I am nonetheless.
Life isn’t fair,
and my hair is as dark as the night’s sky,
so I fall into line,
dark, dry eyes,
now that I have left New York for good.
I’m heading back to the city, in a few months.
I thought I’d haunt the Docklands for a spell,
reliving my glory days that never quite got started.
There is no time to cry,
and nothing that I will allow myself to cry about.
I’d ask you to take me home,
but I don’t know where that is anymore.
I am just scribbles in an endless atlas,
that was never mine to begin with.
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