I would like to meet someone who reminds me,
after it’s all over, of course
that loving was worth something for both of us, and
that remembering was worth something for me,
and that memory didn’t taste too bitter, or left me feeling salty.
It’s a question of reassurance, probably,
or, for someone who lives so much inside her head,
maybe a question of reality.
What the religious call faith, I call trust and hope.
And both, or all three, are fairly low in quantity.
Once upon a time, there was a girl who never forgot, and
one day, she put down her sack of memories,
it was too heavy carrying a vault she never opened, and she
walked away, looked back once just to see
that it was all salt anyway,
an ocean boiled away under a bloated sun.
Vulnerability inculcates a helpless sort of shame,
tears lovers don’t know what to do with, teaches
you what emptiness feels like. It’s better
not to cry, your body remembers an iron road,
a woven path, your organs are nesting, resting, let them.
Once upon a time, there was a girl who gave (away) all she got, and
one day, she realised there was very little left of her, from what
had been, quite a lot,
and this made her anxious enough to chew
on her fingers, and tug those hangnails until
her skin came loose
but it’s better this way – It’s better
to let yourself go than have others
take pieces of you away.
I used to think it was a thin line between being fuckable
and being lovable but the truth is,
it’s a brick wall, a kite string slicing –
electric wiring – fence
and some of us are
less than human. (and some of us are more!) It’s better
to know this sooner rather than later.
And actually, it’s a thin line between
being butt ugly and being the butt of every joke
and being fuckable and being fucked over, and
being and well, not.
Once upon a time, there was a girl who
enjoyed touch a lot, thrilled at the thought of fingers brushing
against hers in grade 11 economics. They joked
that she was just the right height to suck his cock
without bending her knees and this is the problem
with memories; there are too many of these, and ugliness
is overwhelming but it’s
better now, really.
Damn it, this poem was supposed to be happy.