There's a broken barstool on the floor.
There's a fork sticking out of the wall.
There are tears running down my cheeks again.
The aftermath of our last Lover's Brawl.
Your things are packed up in the garage,
The suitcase is packed with your clothes.
Your hands left bruises on my skin again,
My skin yearns for more of your blows.
The fight is over, my anger dissolved.
And I'm alone, wide awake in my bed.
The highlights, the lowlights of You And Me.;
Each moment replays in my head.
I read through our texts, our war of words,
I cringe at each cruel, hateful taunt.
I know you better than I know myself,
what you love, what you fear, what you want.
Insults thrown like hand grenades.
My insecurities are your greatest weapons.
The secrets you stole when you hijacked my heart;
Become ammo, this is Love Armageddon.
It's a vicious cycle we've fallen into,
Each battle leaves us bloody and battered.
Sorry can't unsay the things we just said,
Can't fix trust that's been broken and shattered.
My war-torn heart is full of regret;
I weep bitterly for what might have been.
For the years we wasted, the pain we caused,
For my weakness, cuz I want you again.
My bed grows larger as the night goes on;
I need you, I love you so much.
No one can wound me the way that you do,
Nothing soothes my wounds like your touch.
And it won't take much to change your mind...
If I'm crying, if I call out "Baby, wait."
I don't want you gone, you don't wanna go,
You fall back, my turn to retaliate.
I cling to the soft spots you've buried deep;
You search for the girl I used to be.
Our love was captured, a prisoner of war,
Now we're broken, lost Love Refugees.
And there's nothing fair about the mess we made,
There's no undoing what has already been...
I'll never forget, I hope you'll live to regret...
When love becomes war, no one wins.
Wrapped in Ebony
Today is black on black.
And I hear you ask
If I'm in mourning.
But your perception is skewed.
For black has always been my telltale hue
Of acceptance and home.
No sorrow resides here
For I have never feared the dark, my dear.
My fear always stems
From what can be found within
My tattered soul
When relentlessly viewed
In the light.
Reality of Sadness
I'd like to think they say the things I want to hear.
"It's okay, sweetie."
"Crying doesn't make you weak."
"Everyone does it."
"We love you."
But somehow, I know that isn't so.
I'm sure they're anticipating the ride.
Then, when they release,
I swear I can hear it.
A tiny, high-pitched "WEEE!"
I feel you calling me again. I stay ready for you. I am made by messages from your heart and stored in unseen places. When I wet your eyes I'm accompanied by your blood vessels enlarging around me as they too are powered by your heart (they are my helpmates). I come around when you are very happy, sad, ashamed, hurt or feeling any extreme emotion. Two of my personal favorites are when you love or are humored. You must learn not to be embarrassed by me. Most everyone understands as they too have some of me. I come with warmth, so what does that tell you? I will help you to not go insane. I will help you release the pain. I suffer when you suppress me, that just makes me come out a bit harder next time. I am self love for you. I won't stain your clothes, might get in your nose. Oh and for some, sorry about the make-up.
You were seven, then, and you ran around the neighborhood playground, shouting with glee each time the "monster" got nearly close enough to catch your red fleece jacket then missed as you swung out of reach. But one time you must have slipped or tried to leap a gap too big, for you fell. You summoned us then and we flowed freely, happily, to an innocent calling.
Remember your first essay in 2nd grade? The one on the Gold Rush that your mother made you rewrite again and again? We came again that evening, yet this time you fought us. It was late, more than an hour past your bedtime and we fed off your fatigue, drank in your frustration. Your anger fueled us. We desired power and you, guard down and energy spent, were more than willing to be weak, helpless, passive.
It was then that we grew addicted to the allure of the evening. A seed was planted and we knew that our time would be the time of darkness when we could come, slow or fast, and you would not stop us. Perhaps you would be too tired after holding us at bay all day. Or perhaps you didn't care, when there was no one watching. We made rivers, carving your face and neck and body. It was a masterpiece to us. Even better in its ephemerality, how you would sink, melt under our touch on the bathroom tiles yet awake afresh every day for us to chart a new course down your tender body.
War of Tears
The tears she held inside were screaming to be released, choking on the droplets as they swelled up in her eyes. One escaped on the right, then one escaped on the left, then once again, she stopped them with a blink.
Fighting to break through, getting madder by the minute, these little drops of water pushed harder in hopes she'd break. If only she could believe the freedom a release of her tears would create.
Choking the ones that fell into her throat, swallowing them so not to let escape through the opening, their intended destination. Standing tall, not to surrender to her current opponent, she took a deep breath and then exhaled, putting on her armor to shield herself from any further attacks.
All the while, the tears she held inside were getting louder with their screams, setting up a strategical plan to move forward and tear down the wall that kept them barricaded within their broken tomb.
Marching one by one, lining up to take fire, aiming at their target, firing, whoosh.....the tears broke free. Like a tidal wave, the waters raced forward unable to stop, the tears ran with a vengeance down her face. Dropping to her knees, now sobbing, her tears were celebrating, cheering each other on, their victory tasted so sweet.