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freezerheart · 1 year ago

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This isn't Going to Work, is It?

An anthology of poems I wrote while in a relationship that was doomed to fail, recorded here in chronological order from the beginning to the end~

A butterfly in a glass jar doesn't flap its wings to escape because its prison isn't a spider's web, nor is it stuck in beeswax. Its trap is your love. In its vanity, it never wants to leave. In its heart, it longs for a return to freedom.

Their poison is in my blood and I worry there's no saving me. Their stingers are quills in my heart and I'm numb but it hurts it hurts you it hurts me this viral venom they leave the aftermath of the wasps.

The thing about my heart is it was built to bleed. It was built to break. And it was built to keep pumping.

The thing about my eyes is they are built to weep. They were built to close. And they were built to see.

The thing about me is I was built to fall. I was built to hurt. And I was built to stand up.

I froze my heart once to keep it preserved. But I thawed it in the microwave and it hasn't been the same since. It's mushy and collapses at the lightest touch. But when I see the inside, it's cool and crystallized! I thought I was so clever, doing myself a favor. But what is there to do with a freezer burned heart?

I've never been good at treading lightly but sometimes I stand very, very still and let the silence surround me. In the morning they'll find me, stiff limbs blue face suffocated silent.

The clock strikes twelve. But I barely hear it, my ears are tuned to my heartbeat and your voice as you tell me the clock strikes twelve.

I open my eyes and it's too dark I can't tell where you are because your eyes spark with neither compassion nor malice when the clock strikes twelve.

The knife does though, it glistens with blood and tears, flashing every time the clock strikes twelve.

You haven't made the first cut but I curl into my stomach, because my stomach is where I keep my soul and it felt the cut from the first time the clock strikes twelve.

I can tell this is a magic knife because when you cut me, I can tell it cuts you as well. At this point, I'm not sure which of us you came here planning to hurt. The clock strikes twelve.

But I can't hear it. There's blood in my ears and it blocks out the noise as The clock strikes twelve.

I smell candle wax. Some of it drips on my skin. It forms a second layer. I feel stronger, but I still jump when the clock strikes twelve.

The wax cools over time as much my skin now as ever before. I take a step into the moonlight the next time the clock strikes twelve.

A being of wax and flesh like my cannot play with fire. But I never appreciated the warmth then so I crave it when the clock strikes twelve.

The moonlight highlights my vice; a being of fire. No knife does it carry, its eyes compassionate and steady even though the clock strikes twelve.

Even as my wax melts away, leaving my bloody, I creep toward the flame ready to turn a new page, but-- the clock strikes twelve.

They say that lis'ning is an act of love. If that be so, then say, sir apathy; Could there be stories writ by gods above that I could tell to end this agony? If words were stars that fell down from the sky, so precious we would never squander them, you'd gather mine like pebbles with a sigh and wonder when these rocks will turn to gems. I hid my heart inside a shooting star in hopes I could find yours among the clouds but you don't wish upon the sky so far and I can't hear your voice, I'm far too loud. If I can only love you with my ear, then cut away my tongue so I can hear.

I tell you I love you to the tune of your favorite song as you list off the cars that pass by. I give you a gift and you accept it and I'm happy because you're happy. I hold you as you fall asleep, so you don't notice when I get up again and write bad poetry about how lonely I am.

You tell me you love me in a language I don't speak but because you're sincere, I'm supposed to know what you mean. It hurts your shoulders to hold me so you wrap my arms around your body as though the meanings are the same. You wake when I leave at night to ask if I'm okay. But how do I tell you I want you to listen when I have nothing to say?

You ask me what I want and I freeze. You want me to ask for something easy. A book, a movie, a toy. But I can't lie. I want you. your eyes your ears your mind your body. I want you to see how much I work, appreciate how much I give, read my poetry, ask for my stories, love me in my native language.

This isn't my first winter but somehow, each one seems colder than the last. The frostbite doesn't have time to thaw before its iceified once more. I would beg you for a winter coat But you don't seem to realize it's cold. So I suppose I'll just stand here and shiver until spring finally comes or I'm buried in the snow.

Reading strangers' poetry like it's penned in your blood. but you won't hear the words that speak to my soul and I suppose you'll never understand how it feels to be alone.

Not in the mirror or the portait. Not on the camera, not on the TV. I keep looking and looking I've forgotten how to tell what distinguishes you from me.

I am a delicacy. Marbled flesh may never be beautiful but it is the best to devour. Slow moving, never learning, never understanding my marbled meat is tender easy to eat like swallowing silk. A subtle sweetness; the repressed urge to cling to loved ones and squeeze what affection they have for me away. My need for validation a background subtlety that adds to the dish. My inability to accept criticism even where it truly does not exist adds a hint of spice to every bite. My fear is sour my resentment a fading bitterness my unstoppable tears a salty marinade the intensity of my joy a pat of butter my capacity for love the garlic therein. So eat up, friend. My desperation to get it right means I won't even complain when you bite into my flesh so long as you tell me I'm tasty.

I imagine a gilded tongue rubies dropping from my speaking lips value streaming from each syllable. But you listen to me like bugs squirm between my teeth and snakes bite through my breath. And so I shut my mouth so the sapphires don't turn to rodents when they're sullied by your judgment

And so what if there's glass in my heart? What, do you expect me to pick it out? Do you think digging through tender flesh with your sharp, glinting tweezers will fix me? The glass is not tied to the shadows the shadows are not causing the rot the rot is not making me bleed> The glass is not the only symptom, it is not the only culprit. Leave me be. Let my body scar itself.

My spirit has become lead since I met you. The wind in my sails has stagnated and I have fallen into the bottom of the ocean. And yet In your eyes, the fire's warmth. And I, the moth drawn to it. I need your love like I need water to drink and I don't know how to resurface because all I want is the flame.

You stand here before me, soft eyes gazing as sunlight reflects off my skin. Gentle eyes caress me loving gaze travels my body. "you're beautiful," you say, tucking shining strand behind aluminum ear. As you discuss hair the color of teak and ocean blue eyes, I wonder. When you gaze at me, caress me, cherish me; are you searching for features beneath my glassy skin? Or are you enamored of how you see yourself, reflected in the mirror I've become?

#my poem #original poem #poems and poetry #poems and quotes #poetic #spilled ink #poetblr #breakup

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