Wednesday, July 10, 2013

'I think a lot of art is trying to make someone love you.'


Break-up poem:
 

He ends things in the kitchen.
I say fuck off,
motioning with a steady hand;
pass the tea?
 
I bid farewell to his bedroom while
he gets changed away from hungry eyes.
I know I am going to miss my
home away from home.
 
My heart doesn't ache at first
(I feel overwhelmingly calm if anything),
but later, when we kiss goodbye,
it's as if someone is engraving
 
My bones with an obituary.
He says I can't be the one to save you,
but I didn't ask him to save me; just to stand
at the edge of the cliff and admire the view.
 


Things I'll miss:
-His mother
-The bathroom and how it felt like mine too
-Waking up next to tangled arms and legs
-Perfecting kissing (and other things)
-Tea and toast while sitting on the kitchen bench
-My clothes smelling of smoke or lined with his hair
-Bumping hips whilst walking
-The way he knew the difference between my anxious and excited tremor
-Cupping his face with my hands, his stubble
-How watching TV was an acceptable couple activity
-Conversations about writing/literature/poetry/spoken word
-The way he silently waited as a struggled to verbalise my pain
 


Thought scrap:
He made green tea to break up with me. He said he couldn't watch someone fall apart in front of his eyes. He probably forgot how much I hate green tea and selfishness. I have experience too much suffering to put up with that excuse. You stick around and make it better, not worse.
Zhi Hui and I are a testimony to this.


My life as a sexualised gay teenager #37:
 
*Morning. Mother and daughter discuss the break up over the phone*
1: You don't think he was scared off by the whole (hesitating)...you know...you being attracted to girls, do you?
2: No, I don't think so. I told him early on, he's known for at least a month. Why would it suddenly be a problem?
1: Yeah well I guess maybe you should think about not disclosing that kind of information in the future? You know, he might have felt like his manhood was threatened by you not being solely attracted to men...



I thought I meant more to you than this:

I asked for a birthday poem to remind me that I am more than my illness (I have asked Zhi Hui, Mama Goose and Laurel Matilda to do the same). He said he didn't know me separately from my illness, and I replied that he probably didn't know me at all then.
If Zhi Hui remembers who I was before, and has faith in my ability to recover; if I can share a bed and eat muesli with SCJ even though I'm hurting and she feels it too; if I can drink cider and dance with the Drehan's when they know nothing of my formal diagnosis or sexuality; then you've really got to wonder if it's the Poet whose got me all wrong...
I am so much more than my illness, and if he can't see past that part of me, then he doesn't deserve me at all.