The would-be transpirations
dance in my dreams
when it comes to you.
And I think about me:
presiding in your mind
as you lie awake in bed,
presuming she is right beside you...
But I don't feel anything,
not anymore.
They call it a freeze state;
but I am self-aware enough
to know that I am not ready yet
to be
loved.
I could also be called a fairy.
I only have room
for one feeling at a time.
And right now,
it can only be
sadness.
Someday my chest will surely
crack open from this heartache.
That being said,
I don't want to be just
an option.
I want to be your
light-bulb epiphany.
But you're not ready to be loved
either.
You don't
love yourself.
Half the time,
you don't
like yourself.
You believe that you're bad,
that you don't deserve the purity
and beauty of true love,
yet you do.
Pills and pussy are your pastimes and punishment.
And right now,
I'm so far from that.
Maybe it's the grief or maybe
I've changed—
I can't tell just yet.
It's also the tiniest voice telling me
I want to be a wife.
And I detest that.
You will cringe, and
roll your eyes,
and say this isn't
that deep.
But our innate truth isn't
a conflation-
It just is.
So please let me be.
And while you work on
yourself,
I'll attempt to heal from this gut-wrenching
anguish and just
love you from afar.
