I’m angry,
consumed with my feelings
fetal position, arms wrapped around my belly
tears cold and salty
staring at the wall with an obscured vision.
Dead.
And yet alive in this pain.
Tired of liking you.
Knowing that it’s my fault for not setting expectations
ahead of you.
Jumping up when you want me in your bed
Replying right away to those late night texts
Hopping into my cold car with a quiet hope
Praying that I don’t choke
on my feelings…
Risking my pride for your affection
Taking my clothes off because you requested it.
Then back at home
In pieces,
I’m having a hard time concentrating on the reason
for my existence
On a reason to smile
On an excuse to not answer the phone
the next time I’m dialed.
And…there’s always an “And”
Always “and I just wished you loved me”
“And I just wish you saw me”
“And why can’t you call me outside of late night happy hour?”
Why can’t I just be good enough for you
to want to feed me something other than your dick?!
I’m pissed and hurt
And in between ,
Knowing that some man somewhere would value me
if I could just stop waiting for you to call…
How about you feed me a line,
Dinner and some of your valued time.
Feed me a story,
Something about your life that has made you thrive
Tell me about a time when you thought I looked beautiful.
Poetry on Paper 