I Hate Poetry

Mirror (Ihatepoetry)

I saw a woman, as sad as me.  Sitting alone on a concrete half wall.  Her face was so heavy.  Her spine, so curved.  Her hair, frizzed and the color faded out.  She was so broken. Weighed down. So much like me.  Screaming at everyone around her with big blue eyes.  With sore eyes. Begging for a moment away from her thoughts, with unspoken words and gestures. So loud within her silence.  Deafening.  So very needy.  Lost.  With so much to offer.  Ruined.  So very much … there.  In her rawness.

All around her, the pain.  The loss.  Me.

She was naked yet I felt exposed.

I saw her.  She saw me.  And she read my silence.  And she felt my want. And our mirror.  Our shared mirror.  Our shattered mirror. Sat between us.  Right between all the things I didn’t do for her.  Reflecting all the things I never say.  I didn’t do anything.  And I can no longer wonder why.  My mirror. My sweet broken friend.  I heard you, I just….I don’t know what to say.  I don’t know how to fix you.  I can’t fix either of us.  You’re just as sad as me.


I’m not sure that I’m allowed to tell you about what happened yesterday.  It’s really fucking crazy and hardly believable.  But it happened.  You see.  This type of thing happens quite often.  I’m sure.  To all sorts of people.  But it never happens to me.

I’m not one of those folks. Not one of those people that things happen to. I’m plain and boring and invisible. So how could it ever?  I’m chubby.  So why would it ever?  I’m not smart.  So why should it ever?

I don’t really know exactly what your impression of me might be, but I should say, to spite all of that, it happened.  And I’m not sure if I should tell you what what happened actually is.  I might ruin the moment if I share it with everyone.  Right now it’s my story.  And mine alone.  And well I guess it’s a little bit his story too but that’s just two of us. If I tell you, you might feel like somehow my story is your story.  My story would belong to a lot more people after all that.  A lot more than just him and me.  And I think I’d rather just keep quiet for now.  Keep my own thoughts and my own wits about me.  So you can just go on now.  I’m not saying a thing.

I shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place.

I’m not even sure that I’m allowed to tell you about what happened yesterday. It’s really fucking crazy and hardly believable.  But it happened.  You see.  To me.

Trouble and triumph

She is so used to making mistakes and fucking up her life that the day she meets him, she hardly even acknowledges that he has noticed her.  Hardly responds when he addresses her and she doesn’t even realize that she’s discarding his best lines like he’s bringing out the trash.  And when she walks away, unaffected, he’s smitten.

“Excuse me, Ma’am?”  he brushes a finger lightly across her upper arm.

The voices inside her head are louder than a stadium filled with 10,000. Her senses, overloaded.  She barely feels his touch.  She can’t.  She has no room for this man’s song.  No room for his blue eyes.

She turns back towards him, for just a second, looks right through him, then continues on, propelled forward, down a road she insists on traveling alone.

Where did my life go wrong?

He is left standing there on the pathway.  His head tilted to the side.  Absorbing every detail of her as she quickly shuffles away.  Almond eyes.  Pretty dress.  Soft shoes.

Sometime later, when he sees her again, because you know he has to, their reunion doesn’t go exactly the way he had imagined.  She still wont see him.  She doesn’t see anybody around her.  She’s existing in some other space and time.  Celestial.  And beautiful.  And he has to have her, so he follows her.  Finds out where she lives and makes an attempt to court her.  He’ll coax her back down from the rooftops with his masculinity.  If that doesn’t work, he might beg.

On Tuesday he sends a little something to her doorstep. A gift intended to make her smile. An anonymous bouquet of flowers.  Not roses.  Too typical.  Peonies.  Too Hollywood.  He chooses sunflowers.  Tall but neatly clipped.  Sunshine for a girl lost on the moon.

And what becomes of those flowers?  They die on her front porch.  Wilted down and drooping over the sides of a tall glass vase.  Unappreciated and uncollected.  Mocking him as he drives by her house that next Saturday. Their promise all dried out.

He takes it in stride.  Maybe anonymous was weird. This is 2016 and she lives in this city.  He should have known better.  Undeterred, he tries again.  Signs his name this time, unlike the last.  But still, she remains indifferent to his advances.  She wont receive a parcel from him. Wont sign for his gifts.  Wont acknowledge his gestures.

These gifts couldn’t possibly be for me.

He tries to maintain his dignity but she’s driving him freaking mad.  He’s too curious.  Too wistful.  Wanting for far too much.  He’s resentful. Insulted.  His ego is bruised.

Fuck her then.

Let the boxes pile up! 

Let the bees swarm!

Predators and creators…The locust and the bee.

But this girl has a philosophy about bees: the less attention that is paid to a sting, the less painful it is.

Sometime later, when he’s all but gone mad with desire, she opens her eyes and takes a good look around her.  She sees colors.  Bright colors all around her.  And inside, she feels alive.  A spring awakening. It scares the ever living shit out of her.

Fuck off!  

She needs to remain invisible. And he keeps exposing her.  Making her look up from her feet, forcing her to stumble on her path.  She has to feel alive now.  She is alive again. She can’t help but listen for the doorbell. Wonder what treat awaits her on the other side.  It has been so long since she let her eyes linger on the fine petal of a purple flower.  She’s feeling wistful, and though however foreign this feeling of rebirth might be, she can’t help but admit it’s delightful.  And she hates him for it.

Go back to Mars! There is nothing to see here!  I am nothing, to see.

He has no idea what he’s doing to her.  He thinks there is nothing to this but she’s starting to unravel.  He isn’t lighting her doorway but she’s looking out for him.  Time has come and gone and he’s moved on but she’s still here.

She’s still here.


About a boy… (ihatepoetry)

My thoughts were once consumed by a boy far less worldly than me. I found myself wading through everything there was to think about him, just to get to me.  It was an effortless preoccupation.  An obsession.  An escape.  That limited my own thoughts because I was too busy psychoanalyzing his. Exalting his every moment while not living my own. My mind’s own apartheid.  A shell under a spell.  Fixated but terribly lonely.

Where was he going?  Who was he with?  Would there be anyone there, by his side, who understood him like I do? Someone who wanted the best for him at all times.  Someone like me?  Do they love him?  Do they care?  Will he feel their sunshine or will they bleed him dry?  Who would watch out for him?  What are their intentions?  Is he happy?  Is he safe?  Is he lonely?  Has he asked for me?

I was his mother.
His best friend.
His lover. His lawyer.
A teacher.  A maid.
The antagonist.  The anchor.

I was in love with this boy.  And then one day I wasn’t. I left the security of his little world and I started to put effort back in to mine.  And I began to wonder where I would take me.  Who I would meet.  What adventures I would experience and I never once thought about that boy and his dreams.  Too busy making my own come true.  Quite naturally, I stopped obsessing and my own life kept progressing.  I had purpose now and great friendships.  So of course he resurfaced at that very moment but it had been far too long for me.

But he just had to know…

Where have you gone?  Who are you with?  Have you found someone else to love you? Someone better than me?  Are you well?  Are you happy?  Do you ever think about me?

And I wished him the best…because I really do and whispered “it’s never been me, it was always you.”  He was silent and he offered me nothing but stale air so I bid him adieu and went on my way.

But I have to admit, I have to say, that to this very day, I am consumed by thoughts “oh god, what if” because I was so very much in love with that boy.  Until that one day when I wasn’t.

slow down (ihatepoetry)

I found comfort in his hand, clasped together with mine, as our lives came to an end.

Strangers just a moment before …

Before …
Before …

Before the landslide … Before I was distracted and you were some other boy.  One I’d never set eyes on.  Or hands upon.  A stranger.  Over there.  Living your life while I lived out mine. Timestamped before. We were busy. Oh so busy. Blissfully unaware.  And now we’re gone.

Our reflections in shattered glass. Blood on the drive. Slivers of a life. Entangled. Ensnarled. Spilled gasoline and oil. A fatal introduction.  Silenced.

I said … nothing.  You whispered a promise that we would be alright. I wanted to believe you.  But I knew better.

Fear begets intimacy. All knowing. Intrinsic organ. Two heart beats.  Your thoughts become mine.  Instinctual. I know you so well now.  Your greatest regret.  A dying wish.

Tomorrow’s headlines bold and black.  Tragedy strikes a silver lining.  You knew the world.  I had just arrived in it.  Apropos of nothing.  Needle in my chest now.  Decompressions.  Futile effort but I am young.  They have to do something.  You squeeze my hand but they don’t know it.  Cadaveric spasm.  I can’t feel it either.

We crashed through the unknown. Together. Complete paralysis. Otherworldliness. Bleeding. Sinking. Slipping under. Not alone. But as one. Hand in hand. And I wasn’t frightened because there was you, in your final moment, worrying about me. The stranger. Lifeless blue eyes. It was over quick enough. Breath leaves the body as whispers on soft lips.  And we tumble no more.


Girl (ihatepoetry)

She’s not his type.  None of them ever are.  But she’s convenient. Local and familiar. Good enough. Will do. For a moment. For now.

This girl doesn’t require much effort, he wouldn’t want her if she did.

A limited amount of oxygen. A short run. Sexy and skinny and mindless. Thirsty and eager and nubile.  Good enough.  Will do.  For a moment.  For now.

Like a doormat that collects the dirt from his feet, he walks all over her at all hours. Shedding on top of her. Coming and going. Coming and going. Coming, then going.

One day, not long ago, he whispered I’ll be back, I promise and she thought he meant for forever.  And that’s good enough for her. For the moment.  For now.

A promise to sustain her.  Keep the door wide open.  Leave room for him in her life and in her bed and inside her heart.  Because she wants him in all those places.  Forever and for good.  Even if he’s bad.  Even if he doesn’t want her.  She wants him so that’s how it should be.  How it will be.  Forever and for good.

His promise, it’s technically true. He does come back. When he has an itch to scratch. A dull afternoon.  Some time to kill.  And he doesn’t care how she feels.  And she pretends to be oblivious to the fact that he never thinks about forever.  Or her.  Or what he’s doing to her when he’s with her.

He stays, for a little while, because that’s all that he needs.  He comes and he goes.  For now.  Eventually, for good.

They were together too often during this lazy summer and unbeknownst to her, he was sick of it. And without consulting with her he stayed away for a month. Then added a few weeks to that.  Left her alone in the city at a time when everyone else had fled for the beaches.  She had little to do to occupy her time. But she remained in the heat and kept her door open.  For him.  And she became angry with him as the days past.  She swore she’d never speak to him again when he called.  Because she was convinced he would call.  Someday.  And he did.  Because men always do when it’s easy and you’re a habit.  A convenience that’s not good for anyone but so goddamn easy that it’s hard to say no.

She kept him at arms length all day, the day he finally returned.  But she was beneath his weight all night. And now they have an agreement.  She wont ask about their future ever again if she wants to see him ever again.  If she bothers him with her wants or god forbid the future, he wont come back.  Not today. Not ever.  He’ll stay away for good.  He promises her that.

So she keeps her mouth shut and her legs wide open and the door to her heart ajar and she prays to a God she’s not sure exists for a future she’s not sure she’ll ever have.  And it’s good enough.  For the moment.  For now.  Because he’s beside her in this bed.  Her bed.  For now.

And then when that day arrives, the one she’s certain will come, she’ll shout I told you so! and all this weight will lift from her shoulders, it will have been worth wait.  Worth the loneliness.  Worth the heat and being a doormat.

Maybe she’ll get lucky. She’ll get a ring in the end. One emerald surrounded by diamonds. And that will sustain her.  Because she’ll never really have her prince.  He isn’t to be had.  Never will be.  Not for a moment.  Not for good. It’s something he just wont do.  Most definitely not now.