Tit for tat, we shout
insult here, grievance there.
Why stay together
when we’re both stressed out.
Blame is the name of the game
you think I’m playing.
I’m tired of you pointing out
my faults.
In my wounded heart
I’m better off alone.
Me:
I really love you, I want to commit,
But life has me stressed
up to the armpits.
You:
You love your stress, can’t live without,
you create it all ways.
In you I doubt.
Them:
If only they knew the short time they had left
they’d spend less on the lack,
nor let fear be their theft.
I looked to without, instead of within,
the buoyancy aid that no longer swims
an external holding that was
just an illusion
a made-up craft, a
fake sense of inclusion.
So why hold on so long to an aid
that clearly no longer served me?
Was fear of drowning
the option that made
me feel I should adapt
and, probably, pervert
my core value?
Or was it the fear of feeling adrift
in a dark ocean of lonely:
that swaying sense of sad, of swirl,
afraid to let what is, unfurl.
(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/fantasista)
Who knows how many times we’ve split:
Is it five, nine, twelve times, or more?
Whatever.
Each time, we end back right where we started:
Square one. No better, no further.
The same old reunion,
the promises made anew.
Waiting for the other to change,
and no change beginning to come.
Then the same old fights,
scrabbling down the same old paths
of recognition and delusion.
So I wonder if this time, when we finally split for real
– for probably the thirteenth time –
will it possibly be lucky for some?
You know it’s over when
anger’s always on the stove.
You know it’s over when
contempt replaces respect.
You know it’s over when
me replaces us.
You know it’s over when
you can’t pretend any more.
You know it’s over when
you feel less lonely alone.
The past does not return, nor do past loves.
They languish, slump, fall into ruts:
we try to recreate that first-time wow
but bypass that love, end up fisticuffs.
And so a river passes under our pain:
what part of us can bear to love again?
Much easier to blame, provoke insane.
Under the Pont Mirabeau flows the Seine.
the pert petalled chrysanthemums
lean over their vase:
a tight little offering
from someone who can’t be arsed
to think of the meaning
of supermarket flowers:
chrysanths can mean death –
theirs as well as ours
There’s a magnetic lean to the front
of the elderly, knowing they’re dying.
Will I be next, they say
as their curiosity bends in
to smell the freshly tossed earth,
circling the inevitable grave.
There’s a reticence from the heart
of the broken soul knowing it’s over.
Will I finally leave, they ask,
as they submit to one more abuse
from a partner who says they deserve it.
When will alone beat feeling lonely?
He wants it quiet. I like it loud.
He prefers himself. I crave a crowd.
Listen to the battle of him and me.
He needs attention. I create it all.
He wants to know what’s real. While I just feel surreal.
Sense the battle of him and me.
He likes his sauce red. I much prefer brown.
He always shops for stuff. I prefer to verb and noun.
Articulate the battle of him and me.
He wants it every day. I’m more like once a week.
He’s pret-a-porter. I’m much more boutique.
Wear the battle of him and me.
He can forgive. I can judge and blame.
He sleeps with calm. I lie awake with shame.
So maybe this battle’s between me and me.
inktuition 