#TianaGoodwinPoetry

[recovery-n-poartry]

Johnny

Intro

The hardest poems to write are the ones in which I haven’t entirely healed.

This is and will forever be one of those.

Part One

He captivated me from the start.

Drawing me in

The way the ocean gently pulls each wave back to her mouth,

Kissing her softly before releasing her to the shore once again.

His charming smile called my name in a heavenly tune.

He wasn’t the only man to ever call me princess.

But when he did,

He said it like it were the only name suitable for me.

He made me feel as though it were true.

He spoke it in a tone so soft, it made me melt to match its consistency.

Overlooking Pine Island Sound

Together

For the first time

Late at night

It felt as though the world had stopped its dizzying motion and time stood still.

For years after that,

There would be a bouquet of grocery store flowers on our kitchen bar for me.

I would learn what it meant to be half of the plural pronouns.

No longer was it mine and me.

Soon, it became ours and we.

We would watch the sunset on the boat as often as we could.

We would skinny-dip our way around one island after another.

We would make love off the coast of our favorite island.

And we would lose sight of the world.

The waves would encompass our love as they washed gently towards us,

Seemingly pulling us closer together with each swell.

The sky was a distant memory when all that was visible was water and skin.

Our home was wherever we were together.

Our dogs were our babies.

The ocean was our playground.

We came home to one another’s embrace.

He was mine.

I was his.

All was well.

Part Two

Our story did not end with “Happily ever after...”

Our story,

It ended as passionately as it began.

With fire on our tongues and desperation in our bellies,

We tore each other apart, one piece at a time.

Rage replaced our language of love.

Yet, it was not long before we discovered where we were best fit.

Our and we collapsed back to mine and me.

I call our breakup, “the dark days”

Let’s not talk about the dark days.

Instead, let’s talk about the countless times

My depression led me back to his arms.

Bawling for life to leave me behind,

I would dissolve in his arms.

I would give away my grief to my lover turned best friend.

And he would hold it.

He would hold me.

Both he and I knew that the days of we were over

Yet, the love lived on.

And that is to say,

Our love never died.

It transformed into the purest of friendships.

Where I loved to watch as he fell in love again.

He taught me how to have the courage to lean in for the first kiss

in my next relationship.

He held my hand as I told him I was pregnant and scared,

Knowing it wasn’t his child.

He held my entire body as I shook with sorrow

From the following miscarriage.

He was my rock.

I was his hard place.

There was nothing in between.

Part Three

I’m listening to Rudy Francisco’s reading of Drowning Fish

When a line grabs ahold of me,

“Aren’t they built to survive in that environment?”

And I think of him.

And the way he died.

The propeller stole the air from his lungs,

Replacing it with the same water that once bathed us in love.

Two men on the boat

With deceit in their hearts.

I was not there.

I could not stop them.

Part Four

There’s only one way I knew how to face a grief so strong and overbearing.

Drown it.

I hurt myself today,

to see if I still feel.

With each dive of the plunger,

My pain seemed to vanish.

I focus on the pain,

the only thing that’s real.

Give it a few hours.

It would be back with vengeance.

The needle tears a hole.

This mad cycle only worsened with time.

The old familiar sting.

Draining the life from me with each shot.

Try to kill it all away.

Intentionally pushing my doses, larger and larger.

But I remember everything.

Only to wake up to the same hell I passed out in.

Drowning the pain never seemed to work.

No matter how high the cliff,

I landed on my feet.

The hospitals never seemed to help,

Their only goal to regain consciousness.

Suicide is a door

I’ve grown too accustomed to knocking on.

A door that’s empty on either side.