06/12/2013

stoicism

this was the fluttering daze of Sunday afternoons
the way the atmosphere slumbered into itself
was sort of a miracle – the brown paper bag of subtleties
hours of making tea, seeped twice, bitter but warm
and wanderings into the cold for the nicotine I’ve been craving
sometimes I think of calling you and asking if the sky
had the same pinkish hue as it did that night I told you I hated you
maybe you've forgiven my cold apathy
maybe you've finally gotten around to understanding
that the dusk inside my skull filled too many creases
to let you in to rest amongst the ruin
because my disappointments had sharpened thorns
that liked to nick the veins of the men I’ve loved
I think that I am too heavy from the blood of them
I am congealed with redness that I find it difficult to breathe
when I cough pink droplets escape from my lips
and a memory is lost, only to be replaced
by lethargic hums that had slinked up from my shoes
I did not want to betray you but you made it easy
I’ve never wanted understanding, I wanted to be restrained
to someone who knots burn and graze at the same time
because it meant that I didn’t have to be anywhere else.