Fragments · Poetry
there’s a bag on my door, green and cheap,
hanging there like your half-made promises.
it taunts me in its silence,
a constant reminder of what you left behind,
sorry, i mean,
what you never had the courage to take.
you called it poetic shit, as if it cut
at least i turn wreckage into words,
broken into beautiful,
while you sit in the silence you wield like a weapon
you shelve everything (except the actual shelf)
your ambitions, your courage,
all packed away in boxes labeled “someday”
“take an ativan”
like it could smooth the jagged edges,
like it could hold back the flood.
but i did.
i swallowed your solution,
only to spend two days
sick on the cure you handed me,
spending two days under the weight of a fix that was never meant to heal.
a whole fucking week,
blistered from my own mind,
while you were too busy
working on your car,
or, more likely, working your way into someone else
you said, “no matter what happens”
“i don’t want to lose you”
but promises crack under the weight of your neglect, my love
our first gift to us, abandoned before it could ever be given.
instead, you ran back to the job thats been bleeding you dry,
and to a life where “safe” is synonymous with “used”
stay tucked beneath that roof,
safe from the storm love brings.
it suits you i guess,
a man who mistakes comfort for purpose,
who trades the weight of devotion
for the ease of wandering eyes
and hands too timid to hold anything that burns.
love demands more than safety.
it blooms in the cracks of doubt,
braving the sharp edges of risk.
the bag will go into a box eventually.
the letters, the pictures, the life i imagined,
already regretfully sealed inside,
a reminder of the mess you left behind.
leave the envelopes sealed.
it’s 10 weeks of love letters, october to january
words bled for a man [who i believed] knew how to hold love
without letting it slip through the gaps of hesitation
a love too heavy for you to hold
love letters written out of promise- for a promise,
not a placeholder.
and my dear, you always knew
you were never going to be anything more than
just
another
shattered
open
narrative
poetry
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