i forget, sometimes,
the things we owe to each other.
even through all these years,
if i close my eyes i'm on that hill
the years stretching out under sunlit trees,
fingers clutching a bottle opener i just bought.
my hand gripping his.
i can't always quite
make out what he's saying
don't touch the knob don't touch it don't don't
i can never fucking help myself-
my mother taught me a long time ago
not to beg for the fruits of my unsolved labour;
"never lower yourself like that, child,"
she said as i cowered in a corner,
too stained with
urine tears blood spittle
to be held by her,
"over something you have not earned"
everyday i turn the dial down and expect
someone to scream at me
no no please put it back up all the way we want to hear you i need to see it what are you thinki- but those voices never come.
that hand never reached out to stop me.
i'm not worth the effort but see that's it
that's the thing,
the thing that has me laughing myself to tears
every single night. alone and awake.
knowing you are, too, somewhere but
still we don't talk. insomniac coexistence.
will we ever share the same bedroom?
would you like that?
do you want it?
the way i do,
every
fucking
night?
the thing is what T.M Scanlon's been trying to
tell me. with the dark man like you who teaches a blond woman like me how to be kind on tv.
the thing is inside of something else.
it always is.
what i owe you the most is my silence.
YOU ARE READING
within the mirror
Poetryreflections of the human condition may be deformed, unsightly, or twisted according to the surface(s) used for perception. warning: the looking glass is only somewhat distorted. alterations that may occur are not to be ignored or taken lightly.
