it’s been one year
to the day
since I opened the door
of the cage I was in
and stepped out
into the light.
it’s also been one month
to the day
since I went out
on a non-date
with someone who, as
it turned out,
wasn’t anywhere near
free to be
with me.
so happy anniversaries
to me. bonné anné,
bonné mois.
I started to make a list
of all the poems I’ve written
about you, but I quickly
lost count. they seem
as innumerable
as the stars in the sky,
multitudinous
as the diamond grains
of sand on a beach, countless
as the beats of my heart,
the tears from my eyes, and
the sighs of my breath.
sad ones, mad ones, ecstatic, longing,
resigned – I have as many
moods as the moon;
my feelings wax and wane
with the tides and are
twice as salty. these poems
are my farmer’s almanac,
my weather report. today
it’s balmy with a slight chance
of melancholy. a good day to
mulch sorrow, and weed out
old resentments. if you have
a kindness of rose bushes, plant them
at midnight, under the light
of the crescent moon.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
everyone wants someone
who will reflect back to them
the way they want to be.
the problem comes when
the person sees the real you –
the one you try so desperately
to hide – and loves it anyway.
what screws things up
is when someone
comes along who
likes you far more
than you like yourself, and
you can’t even entertain the thought
that maybe everything you’ve hated
about yourself your whole life
isn’t really that bad.
I just wanted to be his
everything, but that was
too much for him,
apparently.
I like you, and I like how
you’re not afraid to say
you like me. you tell me
that you’ve always thought
I’m gorgeous; you tell me
that I’m nice – I’m not always
that nice, but ok – and you tell me
you don’t understand why
anyone would not want
to date me. part of me
believes it. another part
whispers, "but he doesn’t really
know you yet. he’s going to find out
what an unlovable monster
you really are."
R. Brookes McKenzie 