Forgive & Forget

They say to me, “Forgive and forget,”

as if that would be any help.

I say to them, “Fuck off and farewell.”

I am not unwilling to forgive, and I’m sure that I’ll never forget,

But I’m just not sure that I’ve made it that far yet.

Advertisements

It’s Not Me.

It’s not me, it’s you.
It’s everything thing you don’t do.
It’s when you keep quiet and sit down.
It’s when you fake a smile when you’d rather frown.
It’s when you lie and pretend,
and it’s when you think of others as a means to an end.
But there’s more to life than dragging others through the mud.
There’s so much about this life that you can love.
So when you walk away blaming me,
I have to think that there’s something in the mirror you must not see.

Author’s Note

 

I do feel obligated to note that this poem is not about any one person or any group of people I know in particular. It’s just a thought that has crossed my mind in these busy writing days of Nanowrimo plus my life experiences. Sometimes when I write poems, the people in my life ask me if the writing is about them or about something in particular, and with a writer – that is not always the case. I would never write something about someone in particular without first asking their permission.

Thank you,

Yours,

–ab

Loathing Simplified

Sketching on my danger days is very charming,

and it covers up that fact that I’m self-harming.

It personifies that Pain I feel in a way they can see.

Of course, the black and white doodles don’t help me.

Especially when there are secrets beneath my sleeves,

especially when there are lies between each heave –

of sorrow, of cheer, of exhaustion, and of fear –

hidden in those lost breaths are scars unhealed.

I do all I can to keep your stories straight,

so that you only see the self-love costuming my self-hate.

Never Committed

Smoke is pouring out of my lover’s mouth,

And he’s growling that he wants me to come back to his house.

Alcohol wets my lips as I shift in my seat,

I consider the offer for as long as I please.

Should I give him another night of pleasure, or another of pain?

If I don’t go this time then he’ll just ask again.

With the holidays around the corner and no partner to call his own,

I’m betting he wants to show me off to his family back home,

Present me as a false reality so they stop asking questions and leave him alone.

 

I tell him that I can’t go this time.

Another puff from the cigar, a gentle whine, a faked cry;

“Come with me and I promise I’ll make you scream,”

But we both know that sleeping with me will bring him no more relief.

No more than the tar he keeps in a secret room for his dark days;

No more than the girls that he has in a separate phone that are on call.

I know all about the hidden drugs and all the ways he tries to fall.

Death won’t come to him in a timely fashion, I suppose.

So he’ll just commit any sin to put himself on death row.

 

“Maybe we’ll start the year with a bang,” I laugh weakly in his direction,

Normally an obvious joke such as that would gain his affection;

Not today and certainly not now.

Not right after I’ve turned him down.

He points out to me; “This is the third time this month,”

And for eleven months now that is three times more,

Than I’ve ever declined in a single more before.

 

 

“But I love you,” he reveals, “Nobody ever lasts an entire year.”

That makes me special, I hear.

His lovers come and go as quickly as one blinks,

Yet the reality is that I am no different than them; it will surely make his heart sink.

Make his heart with burn and break and sink so deep in the pits of his gut.

But he wouldn’t be the first one to fall in love with me – always such terrible luck.

I don’t love the way normal people love.

I love people as people or love them for sex, but never for both.

To ask any more than that of me is a venture of false hope.

“You’ll never keep me home,” I tell him,

“I always leave in the end.”

 

I don’t know why it is I expect anyone to beg,

I think so highly of myself, I guess I don’t expect anything less.

They always drop their heads in understanding, though.

Each and every single one of them nod their head in understanding before they go,

“I’ll lose your number,” he suggests as he shambles from his seat to the coat hang.

“But only because I’m too weak to resist,” he shares;

“But please keep mine. In case there’s ever a change.”

There will be no such thing, I’m sure, but I agree.

There is no mistake, though, because this is the last he’ll ever see of me.

Make No Mistake

Make no mistake.

I am no saint.

 

My morals are skewed.

I have sadistic points of view.

 

While my loyalty is unwavering,

My commitment is situational.

I cannot trust others more than I trust myself;

And I don’t trust me – so that doesn’t help.

 

Sadness consumes me even when I smile.

Anger burns in my lungs…

…The hatred is vacantly vile.

 

I don’t know what I want even when I do.

I think this feeling is irritation, but I think I could also love you.

Or, even if I think I love you, it could just be manipulation.

A passive aggressive resignation to something I don’t want.

Or, who knows, maybe I do.

I know no better than you.

 

I think my fatal flaw – simply – is that I’m too curious.

And in perfect sync – what I don’t know makes me furious.

I need to experience things that intrigue me or capture my heart.

Even if they make me ugly inside – even if they make me unappealing.

If I don’t taste the sin then I’m left reeling – and I’d rather be seen as horrible.

I’d rather be seen as something faithless than adorable.

The pain of knowing is better suffered than the pain of not.

The pain of knowing is worth everything that I may have never got to enjoy.

 

So make absolutely no mistake.

I may be as darling as they come,

But I am as evil as any demon ever was;

Make no mistake.

 

Make no mistake.

 

I am literally anything but a saint.

Miss, Miss, Missing You Never Again

Somewhere in the meadow where we once played,

There are stories that I chose to erase.

Things that were once pleasant and joyous are now tainted.

Too much sorrow and pain from the horrific way it was painted.

Lost lives, lost causes, and lost wars;

Bodies eventually covered up the flowers you adored.

The sunsets that were watched with our legs crossed,

Each pretty pink and brilliant blue memory was blotted out.

They were forced into the recesses of my mind by the bloodcurdling shouts.

A home that I cherished turned into a home that nearly perished,

And it really isn’t a home without you here to sing with me,

It isn’t a home without you to laugh and dance around merrily.

The stories that they tell of me – they will be ones of courage and triumph!

But the only stories that I will remember will be of the ones that I loved – the ones left for dead.

The joy that they see here – I can’t get it wrapped around my head.

The idea doesn’t stick because at the end of the day I’m sickened.

I am sickened by your absence.

I am sickened without your touch.

My nights have become relentless.

My life doesn’t amount to much.

I wish to play with you one last time.

I wish that I could have one last night.

I wish someone had told me that the last look of your face I would get,

Would be one filled with concern, focus, and regret,

So that maybe I could have called out your name…

So that maybe I could have brought one last smile to your face…

And that’s why I don’t go to the meadow where we used to play.

Those are stories of happiness that I’ll never attain.

Those are the good times that I can never have again…

So today I am writing them on a piece of paper that I’ll through in the waste bin.

Remembering one last time so that I can forget.