It’s not the pain that kills you,
it’s the fucking nostalgia.
It lurks in bookstores
and Christmas trees
and all the spaces you thought
that you already cleaned.
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little truth.
You know,
it’s fucking terrifying –
this thing with you.
You said,
“what are you sorry for”
and
“it’s not your fault”
and you have no
fucking
clue
how
much
that
filled
my
soul.
shells.
i am a social worker.
i work in a shelter.
i have learned the language
of boundaries and tough love
but what they do not teach you
is how to pack up the left behinds.
the clothes and the shoes and the papers,
shells of people who have come and left.
the dress that someone wore when
they finally found a job.
the broken sneakers,
shoved in a corner
that have seen more feet
than a podiatrist on wednesday.
the packets of ibuprofen,
that never take away the ache
of children in dss custody.
hair ties, tank tops, journals,
underwear, calendars, ripped pages
with dates and phone numbers
scattered, here and there,
smudged with fingerprints
made from dirt and hope and coffee.
garbage bags and name tags,
shoved into a hallway
that goes nowhere.
simmer
i almost love you.
it’s sitting there,
simmering beneath the surface,
waiting for the right moment
to come through.
i am content with you,
not too much
of any one thing.
safe.
they shouted and raged,
cried tears that were so angry,
pounded on doors
and keyboards,
until their fingers bled.
they yelled until they were hoarse
and then they whispered until there was no sound.
in the silence you could hear their needs
needs to feel safe,
needs to be strong,
the left and the right,
and neither was wrong.
#fromthedraftsfolder
took scissors to my chest,
pulled out my heart,
tried to show you
just how it was beating.
pulsing in my palms,
grotesque but true,
i couldn’t find words;
to say it’s for you.
youre digusted,
i can tell.
i’ll put it back in,
go back to my hell.
sew myself shut,
i dont need you,
i wont need you,
i’ll tell myself.
inside.
she was a fucking hurricane
some days just a waterfall
two knots from fucking insane
that’s how it goes, after all
____
i will never understand
how you can crawl inside someones soul
in.
three.
short.
weeks.
how is that possible?
_____
