Dawn Goes Down to Day

a place for my thoughts

[virtriol]

like that

I don’t like that I hold my breath every time I hear her name.

I don’t like that my jaw clenches when I think of her.

I don’t like that if I saw her, I know I would force my fists down from guard.

I don’t like that I know this because I’ve never put them up before.

I don’t like that when I sit in silence I think about how I didn’t want

to be kissed like that

to be touched like that

to be spoken to like that

to be loved like that

But was it ever really love?

Is that how some people love?

I am afraid to know that answer.

I don’t like that I am afraid to know that answer.

I would rather be despised than to be loved like that again.

I don’t like that I am afraid.

I don’t like that I am angry.

But I like that I am fierce.

Like that I am strong.

I would be like this than like that.

[virtriol]

petal

3/6/19

Thought I would plan I did plan A rose petal fell

[virtriol]

lines

1/25/19

I don’t know how to start this poem because it was never intended to be written. Because I’ve been longing to tell the story of you- but I can never find the right words.  Every story I tell of you is a joke or a ramble to no one.  You are not poetry You are not art You don’t draw lines on paper or canvas.  You draw them on skin with razor blades.  You draw them clear as day;  to let the world know, not the pain that you are in, but the power you possess You draw those lines because they keep me- in line.  You turned my world into a world of lines.  Yet you always told me not to read between them.  How is that your world is designed to keep me in line? When the lines drawn by humanity, by humility, by society- don’t apply to you?  You are an anomaly.  A glitch.  Special, as you say it.  You do as you please.  You say what you like.  You do not apologize.  That is where you draw your little red line.  I wish apologies came out of your mouth as easy a blood came from your wrist- or as easy as you made it come out of mine.  I wish apologies tumbled from your mouth like your threats did.  I wish they buzzed around you like the static of your impulsivity.  For I would much rather have one of them kiss me than you. 

You are gone now.  I do not know what has happened to your little red lines.  I do not know who now stands behind them in my place.  Your lines like prison bar shadows across their face Like they once were across mine.  Mostly, I do not care. But I get sick every January when I think of the red dress I wore.  I get sick every March one week before my birthday I am grateful I do not remember what I wore on that day, If I did, I am sure I would never be able to wear it again. 

I am sure; however, that it was red.  I get sick every July and every November.  Because before I left you, I let you carve one little red line into my skin. 

I used to conceal it.  But I don’t anymore, Because it is not red anymore.  It is not one of your little red lines.  It is mine.  And it has not been red for a very long time.