I credited myself
for thinking I was strong,
good in relationships.
Dependable woman. Excellent at loving.
I received bouquets graciously
from lovers, gave them thank yous in return. I knew myself
the sort of girl, and then, the sort of woman
men cook their mothers’ recipes for,
plan futures with in Bali,
entertain as I were royalty.
I am, and
I was worth their attention,
worth their pride,
though never felt I pride – no, giddiness – at being
on their arms.
I was collecting evidence
hotels, a poem,
a ring. These little things
lay in a small folder
near my heart, but never in it.
I was giddy to have their love,
but not enthralled
by the way their face relaxed
as they were driving,
nor the stare into my eyes that
I could not rip mine from,
nor by the words they whispered,
lips skimming down my throat,
collecting sighs. I was not
giddy at their presence, or their scent,
I did not wake with their names on my lips,
though I wrote many poems and
dedicated them to different names.
They loved me more than
I loved them. Each time.
It was important to me
to be loved,
whether or not I loved them back. It makes me
human, but not the best kind of. I saw the hunger
in their eyes,
it’s what made it so simple (horrible)
for me to walk away,
not write soliloquies to the
broken pieces of my heart after we
There were none of my broken pieces
lying, just sadness,
just gristle and disgust with
having been loved so deeply,
gnawed on to the bone,
and being unable to love back the same.
I could accept rejection
till I realized it was not rejection
that would kill me,
from the one
that I disgusted myself
for loving like I did.
Photo credit: alexstoddard on Flickr