Try as I might,
and as unkind as the thought makes me feel,
I could never escape the fact that the only time I don’t feel lonely is when I’m not with you.
I went to look at the lake,
when the waters were hushed and sleepy.
I imagined myself surrendering to their depths,
one foot in front of the other, until steps were no longer possible,
and my only possible position was under the weight of the water,
thrashing at the sudden peril of it all.
I didn’t see you.
Do you see the problem?
I didn’t see you,
at the shore,
hand extended and face painted with panic.
It isn’t because I don’t think you’d care,
but more because if I was drowning, I don’t think I’d want you to be the last face I saw,
so in my fantasy (almost) death,
I was rescued and comforted by somebody else,
later drowning in the guilt of how certainly you said that I belonged to you, and how uncertain I was, the more I thought about it.
I never asked you for your affections,
or your aggressions when you didn’t get back what you thought you were owed,
to answer a very old question,
when I go, I would not have the guts to say,
I don’t love you,
like I loved you yesterday,
primarily because I didn’t love you yesterday either,
and it’s so hard to help you come to terms with that,
when every inch of kindness is magnified in your eyes,
and becomes some fanciful declaration of love,
that never would have left my lips in reality,
but we’ve been living in fantasies for a while now,
There is nothing worse than an apology that comes with blame.
You’re sorry that I took it the wrong way.
You’re sorry that I chose to be wounded by the really awful thing you said.
You’re sorry that I felt that way.
You’re sorry that I’m too sensitive to handle a little, light mistreatment.
It’s a sequence,
a formula that never fails.
You tell me that you’re sorry,
but your apology always carries a knife,
and the knife has always been fond of my throat.
You coast by on concocted ideas about how I’m to blame,
for having a very human reaction to being treated inhumanely,
and I don’t say a word.
I just wait,
for the familiar feeling of the knife on my neck.
I will know true love,
for sure, when it crosses my path,
deep inside bright, blinding eyes that will push me to write,
and leave me insightful about what real beauty has always been.
It has always been you, love,
whoever you are,
it has always been shallow, sitting in the lines around your eyes,
sleeping on your imperfect skin,
and how each scar and dent is,
(dare I say it?)
(I dare. I dare for you.)
It has always been you.
You, the one my heart pictured as I sent the seeds of dandelions to the cerulean sky.
You, the familiar voice in my fantasies as I bid farewell to the flames atop various, delicious birthday cakes.
You, the long, languishing lullaby of longing that has plagued my dreams and pushed their way from my pen to my pages.
You. It has always been you,
but the question is,
my illustrious, inspiring muse,
where on Earth are you?
There is a song that I don’t know,
because my voice has not been boxed into my throat,
she floats free from my bedroom window,
soars across stages,
so unaware of her security,
but there are places,
and there are beautiful voices that know it’s melody all to well.
It is a song of captured chanteuses,
stuck behind storied walls,
their voices are innocent,
but imprisoned, in case they effect “helpless” men,
whimsical, wistful refrains are restricted,
to save weak, impotent arseholes from their irrational fears.
So called strong men,
screaming and scrambling at sweet, soft songs,
from the alleged weaker sex.
There is a song that I don’t know,
it’s unfamiliar but so disarming,
a defiant drum beat under the sunny siren calls,
the song of the captured chanteuses,
who must be set free.