you are a horse running alone

I know that I feel better now than I did a month ago.

Well, I feel more real. More solid. Less cloud-like. Less penciled-in and more definite, unerasable.  No longer a mere sketch. 

So in a sense shittier because I feel the weight of that reality--I am no longer watercolor, and it drags me down.  But I don't cry on the A train each night on my way home from work.  I actually have stopped crying altogether.  

And I do not know if this is such a good or bad thing.  I think it is best to feel.  And it is important to feel in the absence of whatever it is that you would have me feel.  You who do not speak to me or look my way at work.  Who have blocked me (ha! the wonders of modern technology, the drudgery that I even must type the words...my beloved "blocked me"--it sounds so juvenile and ludicrous, it does not bear the blow but instead makes a mockery of the whole debacle!) on every social media platform on which we were formerly entwined.  

In my head sometimes I hear the silly poem unfold: "Do you carrot at all for me?"--again baring sharp teeth, mocking me and jesting at me in the night as I try to bury into the blankets.  

Sleep is a mere luxury, a former lover that also does not wish to interact with me.  I do not know the feel of its embrace.  I lay in the dark, in the quiet: "My heat beets for you."  

I do know that creatively I am unfolding naked and glistening--all awkward struggle and gasping shrieks jagged into empty sky.  But still the cries hang over silence, they are heard.  They gain rhythm slowly.  I was a better writer years ago, in college.  But it makes sense, I read then.  I devoured books.  And I felt everything, I felt the world shake and tremble beneath my feet.  I was afraid of everything and nothing at the same time.  

Still it feels good to try again.

And I learned that unerasable, is, after all, a word.  So you see, my diction is improving after all.  

On the other hand my self care has been abysmal. The state of my apartment is rather unimpressive.  The stack of laundry is unwieldy in addition to being unsanitary, and I don't remember the last time I vacuumed the rug.  There exists clutter everywhere.  On every countertop.  And I don't shower each day like I used to.  My interest in food is waning.  But it is good for my bank account I suppose.  I weigh between 118 to 120 pounds on any given day and I'm not even trying.  I don't think it is a good look.  I'd rather have more curves.  But I am trying with Sammie. He is still groomed regularly and cuddled and loved.

"With your turnip nose. And your radish face."  I'm getting stronger.  Every day.  But I still wish that you would speak to me.  There's still that edge of madness threatening to topple this house of cards to the floor.  Part of me wishes I would snatch my own extended hand out from itself, cut it off at its slender wrist.  There!  You have no way of waving the flag of truce now!  

You always said you would never hurt me.  You looked me in the eye and told me.  You knew what the father had done.  You knew about the rest.  And still I gave myself to you.  Not everything, I saved some parts for me.  I didn't lay down every brick.  And you tried to destroy me. You left me.  But I am so much stronger than you. I have my words, I have my voice. I have a hundred million thoughts.  I am so much more, my love. And it saddens me. Because I could have given you more. But you chose to fall.  

I fell with you, but now I rise. And soon I won't look back, mi amor.  Soon I won't look back.  

For Women Who Are Difficult to Love
by Warsan Shire

you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.