if she asked for you again one day,
would I be enough for you to stay?
•
despite my quirks and neuroses,
sweet anxieties and fruitful fear,
blame my heart for this internal betrayal
but I want to be yours,
want, want, and will I be wanted too?
•
she is more: she speaks so surely, her laugh is cherry juice, she can do things my body fails me at,
and she was good to you, you said,
but you just weren’t ready.
•
and now I claw at my brain –
why didn’t I ask?
were you not ready then
or ever?
you tell me that you love me,
and I trust that you could not lie to me,
and I wait for you to.
I am gripping tightly to the thin hold I have
(on you, the world, any reason to pretend that I am something worth being)
and expect it to wind against your throat, against my will,
for you to hold that against me.
and how could you not?
and how could you?
and how could I think I deserve anything more than your disgust?
•
the air is cold,
that much is true,
tree’s heavy boughs of green and birds flying through,
and my throat closes into itself,
and I fear that these celestial feelings in my chest
might collapse on themselves
twist me like roughage, like vines, like rope,
engulf it all, hungry and feral and free,
expand towards my shaking hands and my constricted tongue,
and if I hurt you,
fuck,
if I hurt you?
•
I already cannot forgive myself
for who I am,
for how I became this,
for the people I let do this to me,
for blaming anything else but them,
for the fucking universe for doing this to me,
for not blaming myself enough,
for not holding you close,
for pushing you too far,
for being incapable of letting you in,
•
or letting you go.
•
so if she asked for you again one day,
and you said okay,
and I was not enough,
I would hope she is good to you again,
and that you are ready.
•
just not for me,
never for me
and once again,
I will find myself
to blame.
•
04/28/2024
•
There’s truly not enough therapy in the world to heal a certain amount of internal image wounding.