On My Bed, I Sit

 

and thoughts come and thoughts go.
"this," i think. "this is what i
want to convey, this is what i want
the words to mean."

and sometimes the words have such
a sense of urgency that i can't
come down the hall to this room
fast enough to let them out.

and sometimes i find myself just
sitting and staring at the screen
while the chaos inside me throws
the words around with no beginning
and without an end, only the middle
and that's no place to start.

the calendar on the wall is still
turned to February with valentines
day circled in black showing a heart
still broken.

i want you to fix it. i want you to
hold my heart in your hands and take
good, gentle care of it, show it some
respect, tenderly put the pieces back
together and give it back to me so i
can give it to someone again.

i wait in vain, we both know that.
your silence told me that it was
up to me to find a way to make it
work again, and i've been trying
so hard that my hands are shaking.

and lately i find myself trying to
be happy for you. i find myself
smiling because of the story book
ending that you've achieved. and
i try telling myself that you deserve
a love that heals you, too. then
the bitterness comes back and settles
like a weight on top of me.

someone offered me a trip to California,
someone else sent money,
someone held my hand all night long
more nights than i can remember,
someone sent me flowers, they all tried
to fix it for me.

but i couldn't run
and i couldn't spend it away
and the hands that were placed in mine
well, they felt like hot chains lying in the sun
and the petals all fell off the flowers,
so i had to throw them all away

denise

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