Writing, sharing, friendship and the ocean

So I have this friend I send pretty much everything I write to. A decent portion of our texts are my sending him links to google docs and his sending me screen shots of lyrics or videos of music he’s working on (hey you, finish your EP! also, everyone else, he’s super talented: go check out his youtube and pester him to make more videos).

We have this delightful creative semi-collaboration going on, and it’s one of my favorite things. It’s nice having someone who’s opinion I trust and who genuinely cares about reading things.

Anyways, I’m not sure if he remembers this, but I sent him a link to something I wrote a few weeks ago. He called me in response and said, “Michelle, do you ever send any of this to anyone but me? Because it’s really good. You could connect with a lot of people.”

“Sometimes Brenna and sometimes my mom, but mostly just you,” I said.

I rarely think about the things I write being able to resonate with others because they’re often about rather specific situations and deeply personal. It takes a lot of vulnerability for me to share things most of the time, hence why I only send it to my best friend.

But Zach and I made a pact to kick each other in the ass to do more with our creative passions so I started thinking more about sharing.

The night after we had that conversation, I went through my google docs and discovered I have nearly 50 pages of poetry just sitting there, collecting virtual dust. That doesn’t count the notebooks I scribble into for weeks then shove onto a shelf.

I have a library of material I’m doing nothing with, and that’s stupid.

So I think i’m going to start trying to share things more regularly. Maybe a poem a week. (Someone hold me to that. Zach, I’m lookin at you, dude).

Today you get three pieces that I wrote pretty much simultaneously. They’re all on the same subject matter and very similar but also wholly separate, at least in my brain. Maybe they’re all pieces of a larger poem? I don’t know. I’d been blocked for weeks so I was just happy to be writing again.

They don’t have titles yet so my creative self decided to call them ‘1,’ 2,’ and ‘3.’ I’m a creative genius, I know. Hold your applause, please.

Anyways. Read. Enjoy. Let me know your thoughts, feelings, etc. even if you hate it.

we are sitting on the beach
in complete silence
except for the sound of the mesmerizing waves
and the song i don’t know
blasting through the speaker he put between us.

in my head i’m taken to the last time we were on a beach together
we were together,
on paper at least,
laying on the most gorgeous beach
on the edge of a grecian island deep in the mediterranean.

and we were silent.

i tried to ramble
about the thoughts inside my head,
but you never wanted to hear them.
i tried to play a song to fit the moment
but you didn’t like my music
until it was the only connection you had to me.

so we sat in silence in the most beautiful place in the world
both wishing we were with people we liked better
because we were so obviously wrong for each other,
but too scared to admit it.

clinging to this idea we built
that was never our reality.

i escaped to the ocean alone
because being alone was less lonely than being with you.

i floated along
and thought the ocean was going to take me away
and i wished it would.

because anywhere was better
than with you.

and now here we are,
on a beach in the silence
and i ran to the ocean alone
because you still don’t care about me
only how much you can control me.

but i, much like the ocean,
will never be a force anyone can control.

you say that makes me unlovable,
and maybe it does,
but i’d rather be alone than with anyone who wishes to suffocate my spirit.

2

i’m circling a drain
that leads to a deep pit of depression and anxiety.

i used to call that place home,
but not since i left you.

i packed up and moved out of it
with no intentions of returning.

you wanted to spend three weeks riding the nostalgia train
and drug me along even though i didn’t buy a ticket.

you never cared much for what i wanted
because you never cared much for me.

i deserve more from this life
than to feel a pit in my stomach
and a weight in my chest
and like i’m worthless.

i was your emotional punching bag,
around to boost your ego and fill a void.

i was never someone worthy of love
or even to hold a place of sincere importance.

i know you are wrong
and the picture you have of me is not reality.

the facts may be true,
but the way i am with you is far from the best example of my character.

i am the girl with the heart that’s too big for her chest,
that loves with no expectation of anything in return.

you never believed in me
or my strength or my words
so you took them away any chance you found.

you say the truths i hold close to my heart
are nothing but lies
because in your world, i’m cold-hearted and cruel.
you cannot wrap your head around the fact that i’m easy to please.

you ask about him,
and i tell you that being friends with me is easy
if you don’t treat me like a piece of shit.

“if only they knew what the worst of you was like,”
you say in regard to anyone i let close to me or hint might be important
as if you have the power to destroy the good things i’ve worked hard to build.

you cannot fathom
that there was far to me than you ever saw.
i shut you out
long before i told you i did
and you were far too busy with anything but me to notice.

to you, i’m unlovable.
to you, i’m walls of defenses three layers deep,
and i never want anyone else to have fight so hard to get in
because who i am with you
is not me.

3

you took away my voice
silenced me
siphoned all the ink from my pens
and robbed me of my words –my only solace.

i sat quietly while you belittled me,
every jab cutting deeper.

you used to live in my dark place, too,
so you know how to appease my demons
and drop one liners
that drop me to my knees in emotional agony.

sometimes i think you don’t really mean what you say,
you just want me to hurt as badly as you do.

then you say, “i’m just being honest, michelle,”
and i look at you in disgust
the person i once loved.

it’s worse, though, because you don’t seem like a stranger to me.
you seem like a familiar hell.
a place i’ve been time and time before,
because in some fucked up way i’m a sucker for people who treat me like shit.
you made it clear, though, that i deserve no better.

it disgusts me that you are who i put so much effort into loving.

i left because neither of us should feel as awful as we do together,
but you insist on keeping us in turmoil
growing angry whether i hand you your power back
and let you tear me down
or if i stand up and say no more,
allowing my inner warrior to rear her head –the part of me that always scared you
because that’s the part that left you
alone
when you thought you had all your pawns in order.

we are a losing battle,
and one i don’t have an inkling of desire to fight.

our war is long over
and neither of us were the winner,
but if it means that much to you,
you can have a crown, a trophy, the grand title:
anything you want,

except for me.

because someone like you
doesn’t deserve someone like me.

i deserve someone who thinks the world of me
the way i would of them
if i decided to let anyone that close again
but you may have ruined me for anyone else.

i’m far from indestructible,
but i’ll never let you, or another, be my downfall.

 

 

Advertisements

Falling in love with solitude

I sat on a covered porch in a rocking chair with my knees to my chest and listened to the thunder tear through the silence and watched as lightning cut across the sky between the gaps of the trees.

I sat, and I contemplated life and love and the state of the world and everything in between. I had just hiked, and the woods always make me pensive. The trails were wet and overgrown from days of afternoon rains. I’d stripped off my muddy converse, and I sat in complete contentment feeling the fresh air and listening to nature.

tibetbutler

I’ve realized lately that the moments I feel most desperate and frantic to be surrounded by people are the times I most need to be by myself. They are the times I need to submerge myself in solitude, usually amongst the trees, in order to sort out my brain and calm my anxieties.

It’s one of those things that I always knew, but it took me a long time to realize, if that makes sense.

Like sometimes you know that certain people or things are good (or bad) for you, but you aren’t quite ready to do anything with that information. Then one day it kind of dawns on you, and you finally incorporate that knowledge into your life.

It’s the difference between knowing something and realizing something. I wish I had more words to explain that concept, but it just is.

Anyhow, this difference between knowing and realizing is why I’ve spent so much time in the woods the past week or so. I always knew it was good for me, but after my anxiety attack a couple of weeks ago, I realized I had to start prioritizing it.

I’ve done a great job of surrounding myself with the most incredible people, but I’m only going to push them away if I make them responsible for my issues.

I can hear him in my head, “I’m not going anywhere, but you can push me away.” I would hate that.

I’m grateful to have had someone to take care of me, but it wasn’t his problem to solve. I’m not his person to take care of, and I refuse to let my anxieties ruin yet another relationship.

So I go to the woods. When I’m desperate for a hand to hold, I hold my own, and I go to the woods and I walk and I take pictures and I braid ferns into my hair. Sometimes I sit on the side of the trail in a puddle of tears because I have to get my emotions out somehow. Sometimes I stop in my tracks to scribble down a thought that comes into my head, a story idea, a poem lead, something I need to tell someone –whatever it is. I just surrender and let it happen.

woodsprincess

I’ve submerged myself in self-care the past few weeks.I buy myself flowers because it’s a hell of a lot better than sitting around wishing I had someone to do it for me. I deep conditioned my hair. I had quite a few sessions of shower karaoke (sorry you have to listen to me terribly sing Whitney Houston, mom, but not that sorry). I’ve taken naps. I’ve buried myself in the things that make me feel whole and alive.

It’s made me less desperate for and dependent on other people. I’m still an extremely social person and crave human interaction, but I feel less like I’m going to fall to pieces every time the anxiety strikes and there’s no one there to hold my hand.

I used to long for someone to share my hikes with, and while company still would be nice, I’ve come to look at it as some sort of sacred alone time. I’m picky about who I’ll let be in those spaces with me, the vulnerable spaces.

It’s an incredible feeling, this contentment. I’m documenting it here so when life gets hectic, and I forget, I have it written here in black and white to remind me that I am enough for myself.

It’s really easy to get caught up in what everyone else needs from you. A lot of times I feel like I’m being pulled in 100 different directions, and everyone needs something. But I’ve realized that the people who love and care about me will want me to take care of myself first. This doesn’t change my undying loyalty to those I care about, but it does mean that I don’t feel compelled to do things for people who don’t appreciate it or who continuously take advantage of me.

swampland

So back to the story I started out with: sitting on the porch after my hike as the storm came in.

I was lost in my head. I had thousands of thoughts competing for attention. There are boxes in my notes of things I had to separate because I was trying to write down three different ideas at once. The woods (and swamps) are abundant with inspiration. It’s the best kind of overwhelming.

So I’m sitting there, and everything feels so loud. There are crickets and frogs and birds and my own thoughts and so many sounds I couldn’t name.

But at one point I looked up from my notebook, and the ringing in my ears went silent. It had felt like everything was screaming at me, and then they’d either thought I got the point or realized I wasn’t listening to them and gave up. I sat there and listened to the thunder rolling in and watched the sky grow darker even though it was hours from sunset. A mosquito pestered me lightly brushing my skin as it tried to find a place to latch on, but I didn’t want to leave my chair or the trees because I’d found silence amongst the craziness of life and this city. I didn’t want to let it go.

I’ve found that my attachments to things usually come because I want to live in my happiest moments forever because the ones in between often hurt too much to handle.

The storm came, and I had to leave. My moment of bliss interrupted by the earth’s temper tantrum, but I sat in my car and watched the rain and found bliss there, too.

Mom, I forgive you

Dear Mama,

We’ve worked a tremendous amount on our relationship over the years, and I am so proud of how far we’ve come. I used to dread Mother’s Day because it was a reminder of how awful things were between us. I’m glad it isn’t that way anymore.

While we’ve talked a lot and had many a heart-to-heart over the past year or two, and especially in the past few months, but there’s one thing I don’t think I’ve said in such plain language.

Mom, I forgive you.

I forgive you for all of the times you weren’t there. I forgive you for the birthdays passed without a call. I forgive you for the visits you missed. I forgive you for the times your actions and decisions made me feel unimportant and disposable. I forgive you for the times I needed you, but you didn’t have the slightest clue how to be there for me.

I forgive you for the times you would change your phone number and forget to tell me. I forgive you for the letters and packages that got lost in the mail. I forgive you for the hurtful things you’ve said.

I forgive you for all of the things you are still so angry about.

I know you’re still mad at yourself for a lot of things, but I need you to know that I’m not mad at you anymore. There is no anger for the way my childhood went. Yes, there were parts that were shitty. There are parts that I wish never happened. No one wants to have grown up primarily without their mother around for what (at the time) felt like her choice. I understand now a lot of the reasons that I didn’t understand before.

I know you were operating from a place of love and doing the best you had with the cards you were dealt. Maybe looking back you can see places you could have improved, but that’s just the nature of life.

Don’t be so hard on yourself.

I forgive you so I need you to forgive yourself.

You are here now, and that is what is important.

Thank you for that. Thank you for turning things around. Thank you for forgiving me for my mistakes and letting me in.

Thank you for allowing me to watch the world break you. Not because I enjoyed seeing you hurt. Not in the slightest. Watching you struggle and be in pain has nearly destroyed me countless times. Thank you because watching you build yourself up into the strong, radiant, beautiful woman you are has had a profound impact on me. If you can come back from the things you have been through, then I know that I, too, will defeat the things that haunt me.

I’m proud of you.

You are an incredible example of strength. I hope to be even half as strong as you are, wonder woman.

Thank you for always being open and honest in showing me your flaws. Thank you for being quick to admit your wrong-doings –and even for occasionally admitting you’re terrible at admitting your faults because like me, you think you have to pretend you have it all figured out.

Thank you for calling me on my faults and for recognizing where they come from you.

Thank you for showing me that it is okay to screw up. The true test of character comes from how well you bring yourself back from your mistake.

Thank you for allowing me to learn from your mistakes but also understanding that I have to make my own, too.

I know all you ever wanted was for me to be better than you, and I’m sorry that in so many ways I am not. I know I’m reckless, overzealous, oversensitive and frequently very one-track-minded. You are quick to call me on that when it is getting in the way of what’s important, and I appreciate it.

But I never want to be a disappointment to you.

Thank you for knowing who I am and helping me to become the best version of myself rather than trying to make me into someone I’m not. Thank you for reading my writing and loving most of it, but also for not being afraid to tell me when it sucks. Thank you for encouraging all of my creative pursuits.

Thank you for all of the nurturing and mothering you’ve given the past few years. Thank you for being a steady presence in my life lately. It means more than any showy, over the top gesture ever could.

Thank you for being there when I took a sledgehammer to my life and sat lost among the wreckage of everything I thought I would be. Thank you for not being disappointed that I’d failed on such a grand scale. You were just there to help me see how to be rid of some pieces and fill in the gaps with new, better things.

Thank you for reminding me that I’m stronger than I think despite how broken and weak I feel.

Thank you for kicking me in the ass when I get too whiny and emotional and need to just get shit done. Even if I cry in a corner about it for a little while, I do appreciate you and your directness.

Most of all, thank you for loving Sophie. Thank you for being there for her. For doing her hair for school everyday, for making her lunches and doing crafts with her. Thank you for spending time with her in ways you didn’t, and couldn’t, with me.

I was worried it would hurt, but it has healed more than I ever thought possible.

I’m so grateful for the relationship and the love between the two of you. And for all of your help.

mama

I love you, mama. Our relationship hasn’t always been perfect, but I wouldn’t want anyone else as my mom.

Thank you for the laughs, for (sort of) dying my hair purple even when you had an allergic reaction. For car jam sessions, coffee dates and hugs. Thank you for passing down your love of music and writing. Thank you for being my best friend. Thank you for the qualities you’ve instilled in me: strength, creativity, enthusiasm for life and honesty. You’ve taught me to always stand on the side of the truth because the truth will set you free.

Thank you for teaching me to be self-reliant even if it has been the hardest lesson to learn.

Thank you for being a complete (adorable) dork, and for being just as cheesy and excitable as me. Thank you for giving me your smile and your big heart.

I love you much, mama. Happy mother’s day.

Love,

Sunshine

Writing, blocks and the woods

I went to the woods today, and I didn’t come out overwhelmed with inspiration.

Normally, I go in with a million thoughts swirling around in my grey matter, and come out with dirt stained pages of ideas, snippets, new directions for existing projects, lines that may fit places and just an overall clarity about life.

Today I went in without much of importance on my mind, and came out feeling kind of bleh.

It’s just been that kind of week, honestly.

split oak.jpg
It’s still so beautiful, even if it didn’t clear my block.

I’m coming down off a crazy creative high. I rode the wave, got all of the things in my head out on paper, and now the wave has deposited me back on the shore with a lot of stuff to work through and not a lot of motivation to work through it.

I have pieces of poems stashed in random notebooks, some poems that right now are two, but are likely different drafts of the same piece. I have some I’ve literally cried over because I can’t get right. Some I’ve spilled beer on because I’m frustrated (and also clumsy).

This is the time when writing feels like work. When the words don’t come smoothly sailing out of my pen and on to paper. When I don’t feel like a creative genius. When I feel like everything that comes out sucks and is worthless.

I hate times like this.

It’s not even writer’s block, it’s…editor’s block? It’s a lack of motivation? Honestly, I’m not entirely sure what it is. All I know is that it’s testing me.

Testing my resolve to make this work and make something of myself.

That’s why I went to the woods. It’s my happy place. The place I can usually find clarity and direction and all of the things I need to be successful.

Today I just discovered I’m really dehydrated, and that hiking three miles in direct sunlight with no shade was not my brightest idea. I miss my mountains terribly.

The trees in the woods I hiked in today valued their personal space too greatly. I didn’t feel enclosed in a comforting blanket of branches and leaves and Spanish moss. Today I felt exposed. I felt like anything I stopped on the trail to write down would be instantly out there in the universe not simply scrawled on a dirt-stained page of my notebook.

I have a strict no music rule when I go into the woods. I like to connect with myself, connect with nature, and let’s be honest….listen to know if any snakes/gators/bears/cougars might be trying to plan a sneak attack.

Anyways, today I didn’t even have thoughts swirling around in my head. I didn’t have anything I was overthinking about or anything to even get out. So I turned on the music to simply have something to occupy my brain other than when this steaming hot, seemingly never-ending hike would be over.

It was that kind of hike.

It sucked.

I’ve word vomited everything. I’ve said all that needs to be said so now it’s just working with it.

I don’t know how to do that. I’m good at the initial dump, and I love the catharsis that comes from that. Once it’s all out there? I’m not good at that. I’m not good at doing something about things, or in this context, polishing poems and other pieces.

It’s an interesting space to be in creatively. I’m overwhelmed with the amount of work it still takes after I have everything down on paper. The projects I’m working on still have so far to go. It’s terrifying and exhausting.

The woods didn’t work for me today, but maybe that isn’t their job. Maybe I need to stop looking to so many outside things for motivation and validation in writing and probably a lot of other parts of my life, too.

But that’s a different story for a different time.

If anyone has any motivating tips, playlists, suggestions, etc., send them my way. I’m always open to suggestions!

The dog days are over

Late summer.

I was a mess. I’d just lost my husband. I’d just lost my best friend. I’d just lost the person I’d (wrongly) expected would be thrilled to see me come home. The rug had been ripped out from under me. Rather, I’d ripped the rug out from underneath myself. In what feels like a never-ending blame game, it has been pointed out to me that am the one who did this to myself.

It’s true, I did. But it’s also the best decision I ever made.

Anyhow. On this particular day, I sat on my friend’s couch clutching a bottle of tequila because who needs to dirty a glass when you are trying to drown a pain that feels insurmountable?

We sat there together. Him playing video games, me guzzling tequila like my life depended on it and drowning out the thoughts in my head with music because I still couldn’t formulate words of my own.

“The Dog Days are Over” by Florence the Machine came on.

 

 

The two of us were coping with heart break, and the dog days were far from over, as he so kindly pointed out.

Cue my guzzling more tequila.

I remember sitting there in that moment listening to the lyrics. “Happiness hit her, like a train on a track.”

I felt like I’d been hit by a train, but a train of pain and tears and an endless hangover.

I immediately started ugly crying because how on earth were the dog days supposed to be over? How was I supposed to put back the pieces of my life that I shattered with a sledgehammer? I remember wondering why I even did this to myself –why couldn’t I have just continued to suffer in silence? I still hadn’t realized I deserved far better, we both did.

I didn’t think there was any way I would possibly get through it. My dog days were just my life. They would be over when I was dead.

“One day, the dog days will be over, and we will sit here listening to this song and think about how ridiculous we both were.”

Mostly I think he just wanted me to stop crying, because I sat in that spot with a bottle of something or a pint of ice cream at least three times a week for a while. I stared keeping ice cream and tequila in his freezer so I could listen to Adele and cry with someone next to me.

If you’re reading this, and I haven’t thanked you recently for holding onto all my shattered pieces so I could put them back together and for being my safe place and for all the things, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

That moment has stuck with me. I think about it often. Usually when I’m drunk and confused, but more recently in a better light.

The song came on our playlist at work, and I immediately started singing along and jamming out while I was doing my little barista thing.

Then all of the sudden it hit me, like a train on a track.

The dog days are over.

The dog days are fucking over.

I’m happier now than I think I’ve ever been. Life isn’t without it’s struggles or stresses, obviously, but I’m so happy.

This move to Florida was good for me. It was without a doubt exactly what I needed to do. I’m writing more than I ever have. I’ve met people who have inspired me and pushed me and who believe in me.

I’ve healed relationships that have needed healing for a while. Life has just been an incredible whirlwind of good things lately, and more good things are coming.

everything it must belong somewhere.jpg
Everything it must belong somewhere. I know that now, that’s why I’m staying here. 

The dog days are fucking over. I survived the worst thing I thought could ever happen. I lost everything I knew, everything I thought I wanted. I threw everything away because I knew I was miserable, and it wasn’t fair to anyone involved.

The dog days are fucking over, and I couldn’t be happier.

Too beautiful for this world

I remember when I found out.

I was lying in bed, mindlessly scrolling through social media like I do every day.

I sat straight up when I saw it. I couldn’t believe it, but it was true. My friend had taken his own life.

It’s been three years since that day. It still doesn’t seem real. We hadn’t talked in ages, probably since I’d moved away, but it still hit me when I found out he wasn’t around anymore.

I think it’s because of the way he went.

I knew Eric during a particularly dark time of my life. He knew the me who was trying to navigate the dark tunnels of depression for the first time. He knew the me who regularly contemplated suicide. He knew the me that had cuts on her arms and legs and a razor blade in her pencil case.

There were days when he would tell my angsty, depressed, twelve-year-old self that it would be okay. That this wasn’t forever. To smile. Then he’d give me a hug and be on his way. He was a light on some dark, dark days.

The small things made a difference to me. Small acts from a lot of people helped me dig my self out of that dark place. I may have visited a time or two since then, but overall, I reign champion over my inner demons.

I attempted, contemplated often and am here now writing this. In a cemetery of all places. How ironic that I would be at a funeral on this anniversary. We buried my beautiful great grandmother today. She lived a long and happy life. She met her soul mate, had a beautiful family and lived a fulfilling life.

I often wonder why some people live forever and others are ripped away cruelly far too soon.

Sometimes I forget and think he is still out there making kick ass art and putting smiles on people’s faces.

Then it hurts all over again.

From my own struggles, I know how he must have felt when he died. I know what it’s like to feel like the world is just too much and the pain is just too much and there is no way out. I know what it is like to feel hopeless and helpless. No one deserves to feel that way.

Depression is very real. Anxiety is very real. Pain like that is real and dangerous. As much as I know that when it gets to that point, very little makes a difference, I still wish there was something someone could have done.

I’m sure the people that loved him, that were a part of his daily life, feel the same. I cannot even fathom how that must feel.

I watched them grieve from afar and just wanted to wrap them in a giant hug and make the hurt go away.

The shitty thing about something like this is that you can’t make the hurt go away, you can only learn to live with it and hopefully turn it into something good.

The strength I have seen, especially from his sister, as time goes on is incredible. She knows it, I’ve told her. I hate that I never got to tell Eric how much those little things he did for me meant to me so I make a point to let people know how much I love/admire/appreciate them while I do have the chance.

You really never know when it will be gone.

Something Danielle said about him has stuck with me: he was too beautiful for this world.

Some people just are.

I hope that he is out there in the universe somewhere watching down on us knowing how much we all loved him.

It’s unfathomable. I’ve written about it over and over and over again, and I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that something like this is possible.

I don’t think I’ll ever understand.

I think I’ll always question why we struggled with some of the same things, but I get to be okay and he doesn’t.

I’ll just take the hurt and keep writing until my hand cramps. I’ll keep remind the people I love that I love them and that they matter.

Love is the only thing that cures us anyways.

 

If you’re hurting, struggling, contemplating, or whatever, please get help. Suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255. If talking on the phone gives you anxiety, google it and they have an online chat. Reach out if you need a friend. Sometimes people really just have no idea what someone is going through even if you think they should.

Take it from me, things really can get better if you work to build your better. I promise.

Gentleman (Poem)

Despite the fact that I have notebooks and notebooks full of material, I rarely post poetry on here. I usually keep it to word vomit/life updates, but lately I’ve been feeling the urge to publish other things.

I’m used to getting personal on here, but this is a different kind of personal. Here is a poem about the time I learned to confuse sex with love. About how people aren’t always who we think they are. About when I learned that not everyone values transparency and honesty the way I do.

Anyhow, I’ll stop rambling and let the poem speak for itself.

Gentleman

She called you a gentleman,
but I didn’t get that side of you
when you fucked me on the driver’s’ seat of your car.
You moaned my name
and told me I was the best you ever had.

Your hands traced my skin and gripped my body
As we moved together.
The tight space between my back and the steering wheel
Forced us to be closer,
Breathing the same air.
Our respective moans swirled together in a
Steamy fog of passion and lust.

You told me you wanted all of me, but
You only wanted my body.
I gave it to you easily,
Crawling out of my bed and into the shower
In the middle of the night
To get in your car
For a quicky and a heart to heart
In a nearby parking lot.

You weren’t a gentleman when you flicked your lights off
Before pulling into my driveway.
A condom in your glove box
Ready to take what you wanted
Knowing I was willing to give you my heart.

There was nothing gentle about you
When you pulled my hair
And claimed me as your own
Before disappearing for weeks at a time
Tossing me to the side like I was nothing.

You weren’t a gentleman
when you said we would go out
And never had the decency to call and cancel.
I waited by the phone,
Desperate for your name to pop up and give me something
When I’d given you everything.
How gentlemanly of you to lie to my face
Time and time again
When all I asked for was a bit of honesty
Even if it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

How stupid of me
To make excuses for you
Time and time again.

You weren’t a gentleman
When you let me hand you my heart —
Words scrawled out across a page as neatly as I could manage
Then folded into thirds
And handed to you as I hugged you goodbye.

You, the gentleman,
Couldn’t even be bothered to read it.
You’ve left it crumpled in a box under your bed
To make friends with dust bunnies and other forgotten things.

She called you a gentleman,
But you were anything but gentle with my heart.