A poem in which I don’t compare
you to anything.
In which you are not an
elevator that I got stuck on,
or a train that never left,
but no more than a person.
No less than a person.
Today, you are not a mistake
or a rip in my tights or a lesson.
Today, I take myself home and undo,
I take myself home and
write a poem about my skin
for the third time in a row and
then wash myself in it until
I’m clean and new.
A poem for the first full month
that didn’t hear the ache
of your name,
and for every month after.
A poem in which I am singular.
A poem in which I am more than
the people who never wanted me,
and I know this.
1. Have a good core group of friends.
2. Build some adventure into your life. Don’t fall into “the same old, same old”.
3. Research confirms that “stuff won’t make us happy” so clear out the junk – and only keep what you love.
4. Work on establishing balance in your life. Don’t be too busy or…
Having sex in the morning, your love was foreign to me. It made me think maybe human is not such a bad thing to be. But I just laid there in protest, entirely fucked. It’s such a stubborn reminder one perfect night’s not enough.
“I enjoy controlled loneliness. I like wandering around the city alone. I’m not afraid of coming back to an empty flat and lying down in an empty bed. I’m afraid of having no one to miss, of having no one to love.”—Kuba Wojewodzki, Polish journalist and comedian. (via thatkindofwoman)