you tried so hard
to play upon my pity
tonight, but it didn’t
work. I think I
may have finally learned
the difference between empathy,
hyper-responsibility, and love.
I felt an echo of sadness ring
inside me like a distant bell
at the thought of your
loneliness, but it no longer
has the power
to make me believe that I
need to be the one
who has to step up
to save you from yourself.
Tag: love
the nun
I had just about decided
to join a convent. I was
giving up on the idea
of having a relationship
other than the intimate one I have
with my personal saboteurs,
those voices who live
inside my head. the eternal flame
that is my hope of love
was guttering out.
bitten.
there’s a spot
on my lip that feels like
I’ve bitten it. I didn’t,
but it feels that way.
it doesn’t hurt,
though it feels like
it should.
it’s like that
when I see you, now.
I remember
having feelings, but
I don’t seem to have them
any more. it’s
for the best. this time
last year I was dying,
suffering, raging, trying to
break free. this year
I’m somewhere else
entirely.
I’m almost out
of the woods,
I think. sorry to hear
that you’re still deep
in the darkness. I hope
you can find your way out
some day.
dark side of the moon
I was crying a little
last night
while you were sleeping
and I was lying next to you
trying to sleep. but
I couldn’t tell you
because I couldn’t explain it
even to myself, and I didn’t want
to ruin our morning love
with my inexplicable and
endless well of sadness.
relationship type
here is what
I am used to
when it comes to a
relationship: I martyr
myself and let him
get away with murder.
no one understands what
I see in him because he
picks fights with others and
he’s so utterly different
when we’re alone. but
crying over him gives me
something to be dramatic and
put upon about, almost a
purpose, definitely a cross
to bear.
dawn in the Garden of Good & Evil
I feel like I should
feel bad, but I don’t. I’m not
the one who took
that vow. and that dog was dead
already before I drove by. I can’t
bring myself to begrudge you
one single moment
of happiness. life’s too short
to suffer when
we could be happy. if love
can be snatched from the jaws
of death, let it be done. woe,
be gone. take off
your chains and be
free. I’ll be here
for you through
whatever hell may rain down
on us.
the whirlwind
my great-aunt May
had a story
about the time she was
walking home from
the grocery store, and a tiny
whirlwind picked her up
and twirled her around
before setting her back
on her feet. she didn’t even
spill a single orange from her
grocery bag. but the one thing
no one ever asked her
was if she felt any different
inside.
as someone who
is currently dancing
with a whirlwind, I can say
that although outwardly
I may look the same,
on the inside I am
forever changed.
weather report
my vacation
is going swimmingly. please
disregard any postcards you might
receive that may seem to indicate
otherwise. I started those
before I got here,
when I was still
looming and glooming,
lurking and lacking, crying
in the shadows
for fear of coming into
the light, and finished them with
the calm and stillness
that comes from going
through a seemingly infinitely
long tunnel and coming
unexpectedly out
the other side, emerging
into brightness blinking
and bewildered at the beauty
of the simplest mote
of sunlight, and turning around
to look over my shoulder at
the long dark stretch behind,
amazed that I got through it, and
grateful that the light at the end
of the tunnel wasn’t a train,
after all.
the job
won’t someone else
please take over
the responsibility
of making me happy?
it’s far too big a job and
I just can’t hack it
anymore.
can you distract me
from the endless pain
of existence?
then by all means,
go ahead. you’re
welcome to try. it will
probably only make me
sadder, though, when the
old enemies, my black and
lonely thoughts of
impending doom
come rushing back in,
all the more importuning
for having been briefly
shut out.
sometimes I see a plane
passing by overhead
and wish that my heart
could just fly away
with it.
sometimes I am envious
of the dead, so calmly sleeping
in their cushioned beds,
nestled, resting in their cold,
peaceful, milk-white marble
tombs.
my exes
I’m sorry
I talk about my exes so much.
but they are part of me,
part of my history and
I can’t help it.
but also maybe it’s
somehow slightly less personal
than talking about my actual self
and sometimes I need
that fractional distance,
when revealing myself
feels vulnerable and
scary.
they’re safely in the past,
and when I remember them
I also remember
how I suffered
and how
I came out the other side,
scarred, but whole,
bloodied but
unbowed, and
I’m reminded
that I’ll be okay, no matter
what happens.
R. Brookes McKenzie 