I’m So Pissed that I Can’t Even Write

Part 1: Any woman that has ever loved you, really just needed to forgive their father. 

I don’t know if this will be a poem or a letter. 

Perhaps a bit of both. 

I had to write before it consumed me further. 

This feeling of anguish cannot be carried farther. 

You set yourself up to my rejection again. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times…

You are selfish. A damn child in the body of a man. If this isn’t rock bottom for you, it’s surely an accelerated path. 

The word coward comes to mind when I think of you. Lazy, worthless, deadbeat too.

Disappointment tangible when I consider all you’ve done to lose. 

I cried when I put the phone down. How dare you make me say it out loud again…

How much it hurts to tell you no, when I know what might have been!

Don’t make me tell you about your spending habits, endless bar nights…don’t make me remind you that you haven’t taken your son in over two fortnights.

Where’s the money you don’t have? The support you can never muster?

Where is your energy lacking when you are day drinking on the clock….calling me from the bar on a Monday and it’s not even 12 o’clock.  

How I tried to love you in the interim. 

It’s forsaken now…the effort wasted. I will not say yes to your pleas for my attention. 

Three months have past since I died daily in my affliction

(I mean to say my affections). 

Don’t call me today, and act like there’s hope in the ashes. 

After I burned my hope to the ground in tears and hostility. 

The best thing you ever did for me was break my heart in selfish cruelty. 

I’m free, and you can’t come back. 

I’m free. I may cry because it hurts, but you can’t come back. 

Call another woman to raise you, because I won’t. I refuse to be your mother.

Cry when your texts go unanswered…left on read because I can’t muster the strength to respond to your arrogance. 

I’m not going to keep giving you the chance to raise your voice. 

Do you honestly think you can argue me out of my standards…now? Now when I have peace and days that do not stretch in depressive bouts?  

You bring chaos and uncertainty. You bring disease. 

I was serious when I said, “I’m sick of you.” 

Because you make me sick. 

You are not a prize to be missed. 

I’m going to hold space for somebody that brings value to my life…a space you can’t fit.

Part 2: Somewhere Since

I ordered takeout for one. 

Two egg rolls and a serving of crab rangoons. 

My fortune cookie’s submission,

“In retrospect, it was inevitable.”

Rope

I keep daydreaming about the rope 

and how each thread would feel against my skin. 

The image of hanging myself

has replayed in my head again and again.

This isn’t a cry for help,

it is just truth spit into the dry pavement. 

It is chalk images washed up on blacktop

and dead leaves swaying to the ground. 

It’s grey heaviness even when the sun is out.

I keep picturing myself hanging

and wonder if my feet will kick.

I see my limbs dangling. 

How high would I have to climb 

to snap my neck?…

And this isn’t a cry for help,

I’ve learned that for me,

living will have to be done for others.

It is just the truth in the empty drink

and the dirty dishes sitting in the sink.

The truth of a broken heart 

and wishful thinking. 

It’s that overstimulation which comes from emptiness in crowded spaces,

It’s knowing I have to stay

even if I am sick of “spaces”. 

I take a breath because I have to…

For Zane and Zade. 

They keep saving me day after day

even when I can’t find the strength

to want to stay.

You Were the Ocean

I was the raindrop

and you were the ocean.

I lost myself

in cascading waves of emotion.

I could not breathe

and did not know it.

My soul pouring from my throat

in a fluid motion.

I could not stop myself from dying.

I COULD NOT STOP MYSELF FROM DYING.

I was the raindrop

and you were the ocean.

I did not save myself

for lack of trying.

I said keep me but I was crying.

I loved you

but lost my way in time.

I was the raindrop

and you were the ocean.

I died again today

but not for lack of trying.

I could not keep myself from dying.

My cup was empty

but yours was flowing.

I wished for love

and was found wanting.

I Hate Men

I hate men

Specifically the ones that

think I owe them my body

Specifically the ones that 

use alcohol as a tool for entry

Specifically that piece of shit

last night that couldn’t hear no. 

I hate men. 

Specifically the ones who think

their dick is god’s gift to women.

Specifically the ones that assume

my smile promises a good time.

Specifically that mother fucker last night

who caught me as I was about to faint

and pushed me up against a wall

to kiss on me in my haze.

I FUCKING hate men! 

Specifically the ones that 

want me trashed. 

Specifically the ones who

think I have to dance with them

if I accept their drink. 

Specifically that moron last night

who slammed the car door into my knee

when I refused him. 

Broken

Usually pain is a great conduit

for poetry

This time though…I’m lost 

In the great abyss

Of a broken heart

A crushed soul

Give me a paint brush

And let me paint black nothingness

Where my mind has retreated

I would hang myself

If the chair were just a bit closer

Or I less tired

This rope has hung for days and days

Astriction a goal

If not a place

Where not breathing is the final big breath

Where loving you

Feels like life spent

I died that day

And have been a zombie since

Throwing my limbs in direction

Of responsibilities

While my laugh is gone

And nothing makes sense

but this tear…

That doesn’t seem to end.

Drown me in this stream

I beg god to end this scene

I only lived to love him

They Were All Right About You

I didn’t sleep last night

because I left you.

I didn’t eat this morning

because you didn’t pursue me when I left.

Your indiscretions unapologetically 

kept me from scrambled eggs and coffee.

My couch has an indentation 

from the fetal position

that held me from dying of despair

all night long and late into the morning. 

I didn’t sleep last night

because you broke me.

I didn’t eat this morning

because I was sick from loving you.

Your indiscretions unapologetically 

kept me in deep breaths

and “don’t you dare call him” chants.

My pillow is stained

from the tears that I begged

to drown me.

I didn’t sleep last night

because you lied to me about that girl. 

I didn’t eat this morning

because living intentionally 

tastes like loving you. 

Your indiscretions unapologetically 

kept me from making due.

My phone sits in another room

just to keep me from calling you.

I didn’t sleep last night

because I left you. 

I Loved You in the Wait

Hope is the quality

that plants the seed

and courage grows the flower.

So I loved you

when you didn’t call

and through the lonely

midnight hour.

I am the sunshine

that beckons the blade of grass

and the force

that moves potential.

I am the change of momentum

and the calm that is the meadow.

I am the hand you hold

in quiet surrender

and the wish whispered

upon a falling star.

I am the beginning

of forever

and my love a promise held true.

I will love you through

the waiting game

because I am

captivated by you.

Waiting Is My Hell

I can measure love

in the smile that hides my fear.

Terrified that you will decide

that I shouldn’t be here…with you. 

After opening up my heart to the hope of us,

despite what I knew to be true and the warnings you gave.

Now, your happy self

doesn’t clue me in.

You say wait…and while we wait,

Let’s pretend.

Partners and friends;

Lovers but always just a guest.

Hang your clothes in my closet

and save the words that linger on your lips 

for drunken nights

when the gin is courage fire.

Making sure you don’t have to burden

your sober self with

I love you’s and relationships.

Waking in the morning,

I act as if it’s not everything I wish to hear from sober lips.

And I’m left with so much to desire

Waiting for forever to begin,

existing in Hell as I smile through the fear

of my heart breaking.

Ode to Mr. Neruda

Pablo Neruda wrote,

“Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.”

“Tonight I can write the saddest lines.”

He must have shared my disposition.

Reading that verse my whole Being said,

“Yes, me too. I can write the saddest of lines.”

I suffer in love,

each day waking up to not enough.

Never tasting authenticity without pain. 

Smelling a flower

while bleeding all over its thorns.

He must have known those nights

where the tears are fire in the chest,

the sobs in disheveled breaths.

Death so close and yet so far.

Living just to die.

Dying because I loved for love’s sake

and yet never finding safety 

for longer than a moment. 

Torn from the arms of forever

by falsehoods and my stupid expectations. 

Laughter hollowed out by the memories of broken promises.

He must have known,

that sometimes living has to be done for others

just to get yourself through a Monday. 

I may wear the rope forever, 

but I do not climb the chair to hang it. 

Instead I write the saddest of lines,

hoping that my cup will never overspill 

if I just empty my heart now and again

in verses.

Mirror Mirror

Every single poem is about

being alone

I’m in my feelings

Fat and ugly

Home doesn’t even feel like home

I’m tired and hangry

even when I’m full

I can sit all day hoping

but my nights are always cold

I wake up feeling weary

knowing each day to just drag on

I can’t even rhyme 

my poem into a lovely song

I’ll choke before I lie

just as I’ll cry before I dance

I hate this fucking place

and all of the reflective glass