the fabric,
my love,
has been gathered.

it frays at the ends,
and i'm afraid that we may never
collect enough needles
to thimble our thumbs
and mend the wound.

it is too raw.
it is too bloody.

you hold my hand on a dark porch
in a shirt i bought you just because and say,
"i'm afraid to be vulnerable."

you scratch the sides of your
badly cut hair and ask me to forgive you,
tell me you are restless.
but that you love me.
you want to
"take it slow."

you have hurt me before.
and i am not guiltless.
we follow the same trends
and love to be desired.
it will prove fatal, i know.

you hold me in the doorway
and want to kiss me. i don't let you.
we are,
taking it slow.

i sleep with someone else in my bed.
he puts his hands on me,
presses down.
i flick him away,
let him only hold me.

in the morning,
i find you flustered
and disheveled.

i know before you say it.

in our separate ways
you have slept with someone else.

you say the two
are not connected.
that sex is just sex.
you love me.
that last night,
we connected.

what you refuse to see,
my love,
is how over this has to be now.

because
every time i think about
how good it felt to be understood by you,
i will see the two of you pressing
drenched limbs into a stranger's mattress,
grunting head between your legs and
the flicker of my face on your subconscious
before you finally let yourself come.

07/17/2009

Posted on 07/17/2009
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer