How tiny I felt
that evening
uttering
small apologies
with such cut words
and breaking you open
farther.

It's the fear
the wash that runs with my tears
the choke
that grip that I wrangle with
wishing that it would let go.

There are phantom girls
with long black hair
that sing to me
and hold me down
and moan in ways that burn me up inside.

It starts to grow.
To think that it was her.
To think that she held everything
I hold so dear.
To think it was her lips
and not mine-
to feel so small again
to feel angry...

But like the angry scars
that mar
the new and beautiful
curves of a blossoming woman
at first
the scars
that mark our past
with lashings
scrapes and tears
and places where we dug our heels
and just refused
will even and fade and reveal
this creamy new skin.

This beautiful now.

If it helps to know,
my love,
I cried with you
that night.

08/14/2004

Author's Note: This is volley back. For those not in the know, to volley a poem is to take someone elses poem and pen a poetic reply to it.

Posted on 08/15/2004
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia