happy

part three

you tell me

you love me

and i wish to stop breathing

curl my body forward into yours

clutch my fingers

against your shoulders

breath your scent in

and almost will myself to cry

as i am overcome

i hope you know how

happy you make me

something other

why is it now
though i think i knew
understood it in the end
the pull of this
force by something other
than magic
that maybe i can heal it over
by the press of her hips to mine
the tangle of her fingers
in my hair
and the tug as she pulls
me to her
fingers locked to the collar
of my shirt
as she takes me down
out
across the sheets
and in the end
this is fantasy
smoke along the shallow curve
of my back
the trace of my gaze
up her legs until
i reach her breasts
and look away

funny though
for by the end of it
i had to unpack it all
trace my face in the mirror
and dig deep enough
the squeeze the valve
of my heart open
and push all the blood
out across the floor
because

i am sleeping
with him
his teeth a bite along
the edge of my skin
his fingers digging into my hips
my arms clinging to him
as i whisper (i love you,
i love you, i
love you) in an attempt
to spread this truth
out along the axis of
my heart

and i'm still watching her

in the end

part two

i told you
i love you (i love you)
quickly without breath
in my memories
of the embellishment
of the act
and the tug of the words
from my lips
in one go
almost to the point where
i wondered if
i'd just thrown
my confession away
i told you
i love you (i love you)
"really?" you asked
really, truly
actually,
probably by now
for long enough that
i am no longer fighting it
and this will only
grow from here
i told you
i love you (i love you)
and you asked for time
but i knew that
before i decided to speak
i knew that as i
opened my mouth
i knew that as
i watched your face
in response and
it's ok
i'll give it to you
willingly

for i see no reason why
we won't get there
in the end

make do

part one

i was going to write
you a confession
to tell you
i love you (i love you)
probably filled with words about
the way you make me feel
written like all other poems
and all other loves
shared by
other people
so generic that in the end
i couldn't
i was going to write
you a love poem
in confession
about it all
and i can't
not sure why
or how or when
but this relationship is now
everything
not in a creepy or
desperate manner
but in a fashion that it's
slightly too large
to kiss open across the page
in a way that makes
any sense at all
i was going to write
you a confession
to tell you
i love you (i love you)
but instead
wrote one
on why i couldn't

you'll just have to
make do with this

Confession

06/17/12

There's the gap in my chest
as my ribs are slowly pried apart,
my lungs gasping for air,
my mouth dry as I try to swallow
my heart down deep into my chest
before it bursts.
I can't believe I said that
to you.

Red

Red lips that are not so red.

You smile

with mock sincerity etched upon your face.

You’re laughing at me.

I’d hear whispers late at night, of how

you rip peoples’ hearts out

and leave them to fester in the open air,

blood spilling out,

dying red to black,

sticking, causing a permanent wound,

just like the one you left on me.

Red lips that are not so red.

You pout,

creating the unfair urge to protect, yet

you’re cutting into me.

I’d watch you paint, never sleeping,

creating false visions

and twisted pictures of reality,

paint smeared across the canvas,

staining white with red,

mixing a permanent brand,

just like the one you left on me.

Red lips that are not so red.

You frown

with distain marked upon your brow.

You’re looking down on me.

I’d listen to you criticize and mock

my every move and reaction to you,

launching a frontal attack with words,

piercing deep within my cells,

clouding back a layer of rage,

just like the one you left on me.

Red lips that are not so red.

You laugh,

knowing my limitations and boundaries.

You’re playing with me.

I’d hear your voice with taunting tones,

drawing me in circles,

wearing me down because you know

I can’t resist you,

dark red on skin, you lips on mine,

a branding of ownership by lipstick,

just like the one you left on…

him.

Red lips that are not so red,

sealed tightly against what

I want to hear.

The Doctor

Every Tuesday morning he sits down in the second and final chair in the room and asks my husband what he’d like to talk about today. He always opens the door 30 seconds before 11 o’clock and then smiles when he sees my husband sitting there, as if he’s forgotten there’s no choice for either of them in the matter. He shuts the door quietly, without the general clack and bang of metal and wood attempting to fuse together in a way that should have never been made possible, and I find myself standing on the other side of the door in contemplation about the situation, just like every other Tuesday morning.

            

The dusty, gray blinds smoothed up against the window that make no noise as they swing back and forth, the sterilized silver of the door handle covered in the gentle grip of fingerprints and the little metal plaque below the window with the letters ‘Dr. Allaway, Psychiatrist’ engraved upon it.

           

I enter the room at 20 after and as usual, only the doctor notices, his eyes flickering to me before going back to the papers on his lap. He’s finally lost that scared, nervous look of uncertainty he thought he’d been hiding every time he laid eyes on me. My husband’s eyes remain fixed to whatever spot on the floor he’s focusing on, attempting to remain within the silence.

            

I probably should be calling him my ex-husband though, yet I can’t manage to staple the words down onto my tongue and force them to stay. It’s strange how we find it fit to label those moments that once consumed our lives, it’s almost like I’m admitting a mistake. And yet here we all are, the man I decided to marry one day, seven years ago, the doctor in the opposite chair and me, a shadow against the wall.

           

And then the conversation starts, or rather, it attempts to. Perhaps this will be the day there is crying, the big, gushing tears that roll down my ex-husbands cheeks, filling his lips with a saltiness that drowns out his apologetic pleas, that he didn’t mean to do it.

            

Or the rage that has nowhere to be directed. The chairs are bolted to the floor and there is nothing else within the confines of the room. No little paintings of general scenery, puppies and children running through a sunny field. No shelving units, no tables or throw rugs. Even the blinds are behind a second sheet of glass.

            

But someway or another, the confession will break, my ex-husband on the floor or huddled in his chair, the doctor thanking him for his time and the guards’ soft knock at the door. They’ll carry him out; whispering soft reassurances, promises of applesauce for desert, medication, a rest and finally the door snicks shut once more, leaving the two of us alone.

            

He’s still sitting down, the papers abandoned on the floor beneath his chair, his hair going slightly gray at the roots in a way that’s starting to bother him, a few days growth outlining his face and the same tired resolution in his eyes as he finally looks up and meets mine.

            

I smile. He smiles, though not a strongly as I do. Tracing his face, I let my fingers walk under his chin and brush my lips against his, hoping this time he’ll be able to feel my skin against his.

            

Nothing.

            

He kisses me back, his hands tracing where my face would be if I were physical. “I’ll see you next week,” he whispers.