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it isn't you, it's me
by Ava Bluwe can’t touch the same way anymore,
the curvatures of our hands are no longer in synch
and when you sleep, you sleep without me
when we planted roses in our garden,
I asked for them to all be sterling
and you made them red
and we argued,
we fought over the flowers,
we danced around the idea of ending it all
all over roses
and I found it ironic how something so exquisite would be the end of us
but the irony was lost on you,
and the day had turned to dusk
and our eyes no longer met
I couldn’t remember your middle name,
you asked me if I knew
and I couldn’t
I couldn’t remember your fucking middle name
and this is when you began to look up pictures of other women on the internet
pictures of women fatter with small eyes and tiny lips
women who would never pronounce my name correctly
but they would remember your middle name
they would remember to wipe the semen from their eyes after sucking you off
after giving you the worst blow job ever
the kind I wouldn’t do
the kind my mouth wasn’t meant for
because I only go for the best
and you will love it
you will hear them repeat your name
calling you GOD
because they really don’t even fucking remember who you are
they only saw you as a cock
I couldn’t forget how we met,
how we entertained each other for days with nothing but our bodies
with nothing but our breaths melting in-between
here is our rose garden
here is the red of our demise
and I know I never remembered to tell you I was sorry
but you wouldn’t hear it anyway.
10/25/2009 Posted on 10/25/2009
Copyright © 2024 Ava Blu
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 10/25/09 at 04:16 PM In terms of build-up alone this is probably one of the best poems I've ever read. The fury in the opening is brutal enough, but you somehow manage to keep pushing it higher and higher, until that third to last stanza which is some of the most brilliant, vicious anger I've ever seen from your work. Incredible stuff. |
| Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 10/26/09 at 02:08 PM Who cannot relate with this? Anyone who's grappled with the storms and inexplicaple deep closeness of human-to-human interplay and seemingly bonded closeness.
"and I found it ironic how something so exquisite would be the end of us" is the diamond in here (for me.) You've bound in poetry what is normally just tucked in the corner of our mind; the irony of love gone haywire.
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| Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 10/26/09 at 02:14 PM [* Disclaimer: I am not terrific, like Gabe and others, at critiquing poetry. I'm a mere consumer. I just know what books of poems I have upon my tables, or would purchase if I could.] |
| Posted by Nanette Bellman on 11/13/09 at 07:58 PM God I miss this stuff. I miss you're writing. I miss my writing. |
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