Tag: confessional writing

Someone mentioned your name yesterday,
and my nails dug into my palm,
the marks still present as I struggled out of a dream of you this morning,
asking myself why my impulse is still to punish myself for your presence in my subconscious when I am supposedly free?

The trains are fucked this morning and all I can do is recall how you insisted on driving,
donning a cool, calm persona as you pressed your fingertips to the wheel,
your nails digging into the leather as you find yourself aflame,
your eyes had stared a little too long at my legs,
and your lip was carved by your teeth.

We’re not so different, you and me.

I’ve got my ex husband on line one,
asking if things can be fixed,
and I tap my pen against the oak of my desk,
making a wish as I watch my phone shuffle through songs by starry eyed girls who saw things that my eyes aren’t capable of conceiving.

I wish that I was a mother.

He asks for me back but he couldn’t give me that,
and after I gave him everything and gave nothing to my own desires, I am…
…damn irritated, honestly.
He doesn’t want me.
He wants a good wife who cooks him hearty meals and cries just as he’s about to come, because he’s into that, because he’s watched too much porn,
and I’ve been too far gone for far too long to pretend properly anymore.

It doesn’t have to be me, specifically,
but I’m around, so he’s around too,
asking what I’ll do without him,
a bicycle salesman at the bottom of the ocean.

My mindless obedience is romanticised in his memories,
and he calls,
not for me,
but for the dream that I was when he was losing his mind beneath the covers,
committing crimes to a girl who would never tell,
unless she had a record to sell,
in which case,
it encased her sweet throat,
a rosy, righteous melody that made you shudder if you listened loud enough to truly understand,
but nobody ever does these days.

On line two is the last shred of my sanity,
and I’m sorry,
but I think I’m hanging up on everyone.