to forgive someone who does not love you

to forgive someone who does not love you

I will begin with a truth: I loved you so much it tasted foul in my mouth.

It felt like bile rising up my throat. I loved you so much in so many ways in for so many reasons and I waited and I loved. I loved you like I knew what to do and I didn’t, still don’t know, still do love you, somehow.

 

I am thankful for it, in some way.
Loving you and not being loved back
makes a person do things,
makes them learn
how to write heartbreakingly real poetry about love and not loving
and fingers touching the small of backs
and hoping they’d stay there. They won’t.

They find the rest of me even when you don’t
and I will keep all of that forever, for the rest of my life.
I will find it stowed away on the bottom bedside drawer
beneath catalogs and receipts and I will remember
that I loved you and it will hurt all. over. again.

And god, I will never find it in myself to blame you;
I am not easy to love. I am not easy to see.
I forgive you, even if you didn’t do anything wrong.

Yes. I will love you again.

 

stage #1: denial

stage #1: denial

Stage #1: Denial.

I tell myself
To try out cigarettes
Because they are pretty
The way you tell yourself
To taste her lips
Because they seem sweet.

Like an impersonal brand of love,
Store-bought, handmade,
Smelling like the liquor your father drinks
On the nights your mom comes home late.

I understand, I will not beg.
I will not ask. I don’t need that,
Even though I wish I had
Because I’ve always been one
To talk about not needing a person to be in love.

Because there are other things
To fall in love with
Like sunsets and paintings
And the art of the written word
And the art of me.

PICK YOUR POISON

PICK YOUR POISON

“PICK YOUR POISON,”
my friends tell me.
They shout it from rooftops,
bellow from the heart, and when I ask
what the poisons are

They laugh, and tell me this:

The big city, and you
And home, and falling in love headfirst—
—the most dangerous kind, but the most beautiful too.

I ask them if it’s really poison,
because it does not seem like so.
It seems like a gift, to spend that with you.

They laugh, and tell me this:

The big city loving you,
And home becoming limbs and flesh—
—when it is meant to be stone and wooden framework.

I ask what the other poison is,
because I cannot stand the thought
that we are poison.

They laugh, and tell me this:

The other poison is to live,
but not truly live, only move and breathe
but with none of you.

And I decide the way to die
would be in your arms
than shattered glass and brick walls of a house, not a home,
So my poison will be you.