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antidote.

9/6/2016

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you said that
i am in love with you, that
you can see it in my eyes, but
i don’t even know anymore.
maybe it was the smell of
that balminess you
rub into your beard or
maybe it was the
serendipity of knowing
you were near or maybe
it was just the alcohol that
quiets all my fears and
convinces me that
dark can be light and
i can trust the night and
maybe that’s what you
saw in my eyes.
i have said that
i love the way our
brokenness dances together, but
your brokenness treats me
like shit, and
my brokenness lets you, so
perhaps the familiarity of
pain and commiseration is
actually the antithesis of
healing, the opposite of
home.
you said that
i am beautiful, that
you can see it across my life, but
do you love me beneath
my skin?
you are ambiguous and
hesitant and the words that
mean the most are mumbled under
cowardly breaths with
eyes averted.
there are many things that
i feel for you, but
the question is truly
what do you feel for me?
i was told that men show
their intentions and their heart with
their behavior and not
their words, and when
i view the youandme through
that lens, how
you feel (or who
you are) is quite clear
because you know how to
unshutter the windows of
my soul, but the truth doesn’t
stutter when you turn and
let go, you
always let go of
me.
you said that
i only love you when
you are walking away, but
how will you ever know if
you don’t ever stay?
maybe the truest question is
why do i keep showing up?
you are the antidote to
my ancient sadness (though
quick-acting, but
not long-lasting) and
your accolades drip
like honey off your tongue
onto my soul, you are like
heroin in my blood that
lifts me above
the tangled briars of
childhood and beyond the
wreckage of failed
fathers and husbands; i know
you are no savior and
no god, but god damnit
i love taking hits off of
your moonlit skin, despite the
emotional hangover that
awaits me when i wake up in
the forever of
lonely tomorrows.
so maybe it’s not love, and
maybe the magic between us is
better called addiction and
maybe the problem
(after all) is
me.
fuck.
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  • HOME
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