Tuesday, July 23, 2013

how to be a depressed lover and how to date one, respectively.

 
“The seventh page of my journal is missing,
savagely ripped out after a successful
attempt at describing your body with overused
metaphors: Broken ribcages. Falling asleep
inside the dip of your collarbones. Slivers
of light cutting through the cracks between
your individual vertebrae. It’s all been said
before and to use them again would be an
insult because your eyes are not pools of
ocean. Your lips are not flower beds and
you are not a temple. I could not capture you
even if the words were written in my own
blood because this skin can only hold so
much. Because I can no longer look at you
without burning. You are too painful for poetry
and too big for language. You are far too many
things I don’t know how to write about.”
—Kim Visda
 
 
Last night I thought I kissed
the loneliness from out your belly button.
I thought I did, but later you sat up,
all bones and restless hands, and told me that
there is a knot in your body that I cannot undo.
I never know what to say to these things.
“It’s okay.” “Come back to bed.”
“Please don’t go away again.”
Sometimes you are gone for days at a time
and it is all I can do not to call the police,
file a missing person’s report, even though
you are right there, still sleeping next to me
in bed. But your eyes are like an empty house
in winter: lights left on to scare away intruders.
Except in this case I am the intruder and you
are already locked up so tight that no one
could possibly jimmy their way in.
Last night I thought I gave you a reason
not to be so sad when I held your body like
a high note and we both trembled from the effort.
Some people, though, are sad against all reason,
all sensibility, all love. I know better now.
I know what to say to the things you admit to me
in the dark, all bones and restless hands. 
“It’s okay.” “You can stay in bed.”
“Please come back to me again.””
—Donna-Marie Riley
 

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