you scrawl my insides
along a piece of paper,
the one you'll throw
in my face later, tallying
all the mistakes that i've made
and those you couldn't.

but i'm beyond that now.

i'm past all of the disgust
that i rake along my eyelids.
i couldn't, i wouldn't, and
you should know that.

you should know.

but you've tasted of the other side,
you've seen the light and
told it to close the door
and not to disturb your sleep.

i hope you're proud
of all that you've become,
of the girl that i once loved,
and still do, in ways.
but mine are not yours, and
mine are unacceptable
due to that tragic detail.

anal pessimism
sears through me,
and i break.

(i break, and you
merely step
on my glass.)

01/19/2004

Posted on 01/20/2004
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe