💌

Edward Hopper

i hate you.

Tell me what happened, or don’t

It is to process how you make me feel,

Not on my statue surface, but for real,

The tears & fears I desperately conceal.

.

You messed it all up,

You don’t give a fuck,

You left me for dead,

I’m drowning in dread.

.

But I don’t think about that,

It’s all a part of a past

That I don’t need to rehash

For my stony heart

Is becoming brittle

Like dried flower petals

And the autumn leaves.

Slip something in my drink,

Because it’s getting late

And my restlessness

Is getting in the way of

snow and ice and arctic winds,

i couldn’t feel my fucking skin;

it was brutal, locked out in the cold.

it was a miserable existence,

one that made decomposing bodies look warm and inviting.

so your arms,

strong and lively and promising,

looked like the perfect shelter to me.

there’s no doubt about it,

that winter,

you managed to keep me from freezing

but that’s not to say you kept me warm.

i had been trudging through a shivery wasteland for so long

that i had forgotten what warmth really was.

but spring is finally around the corner-

that first ray of sunlight that caressed my wintry flesh

stirred up the life in me that i feared i was losing.

only now that all the frost is melting

can i see that your arms were lukewarm at best.

i’m sorry that i ran into them without hesitation.

i’m sorry that i thought i needed a blanket

when really, i needed the fucking sun.

i’m sorry that i let you make me think that just getting by was good enough,

and you’re sorry that i’m learning a new truth as the seasons change.

Of a deserted playground,

A rundown park

Under an angry, graying sky.

You’re the rust on the swing set chain,

You’re rotting, decaying wood;

There are splinters to be imbedded in fingers and feet

Of unsuspecting children

Who climb so recklessly.

You make me feel

Like a child at play

In a dangerous place

Not meant for such games.

You’re the condemned site

Of my hometown,

Like an abandoned and infamously

Haunted house.

It’s funny how

Things like you

I need never fear being backstabbed

For I prefer being stared in the eyes

With a stake pounding through my chest

And you never disappoint me

I’m satisfied every time

We’re so very compatible

Me, the ever-romantasizing masochist,