One-hundred and Sixty-five: Proud

I grew crooked wisdom in January.
It was so typical.
Four men stood on me,
analysing my bravado,
unaware that I was scared.
My naivety swelled until I couldn’t speak
and when I put a hand up to touch my courage,
I realised it was numb.
On the way home, two men walked in front of me,
but only because I let them. This too is typical.
Usually I storm ahead, proud as a stallion,
but sometimes I am unsure. And when I am unsure,
I shut down. (So when you left me in June, actually,
you only left my shadow.)

In February I wore a  glorious dress of flames
that made me scream like a banshee without shame.
I lost the ability to write, to wash my hair, to hold someone.
I lost the desire to eat, to tolerate tears, to hate myself.
I stained my body with little hearts so I didn’t need to cry.

In March I went away with the opposite of love.
I cried in bathrooms and
punished them the way I punish people:
by punishing myself.
There were electric skylines and
amateur flamenco dancers in the streets.
All I wanted was to go home.

Then you came along and I thought that you
were my reward for not breaking.
You seemed real and that scared me.
My voice was  weak and awkward and
it drove me almost as crazy as you did and
I hated it but I thought that it didn’t matter
because this was real, and you would wait
until I was ready to be real with you and
then I was going to drive you oh so crazy.

Now I need to woman up and be strong once more.
The funny thing is, I’m grateful for these opportunities;
strength is a price I’m proud to pay for pain.

Early June


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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