Wayward Words

I have a book in which my exes slumber and slither.

A book filled with echoes of past “loves” and past tears.

Testaments to every mistake and heartbreak I survived.

You, my love, are not in there.

I have a book filled with beautiful words.

Words that I imbued with all of my passion, and all of my pain.

Beautiful words I once wielded to weave stories of hideous moments, and unremarkable people.

You, my love, are not in there.

You are not there because, as hard as I have tried, I can’t write you poetry.

As hard as I try, my poet’s brain cannot seem to create for you.

This is not because you don’t inspire me.

It is not because we lack the passion I once felt for those mediocre muses.

It is not because I don’t love you.

(If it were simply a case of love, I would be able to write sonnets and epics -

I would wax lyrical for hours, never resorting stereotypes or cliche.

I would be Shakespeare and Homer reincarnate.)

I can’t write you poetry,

because it is easier to tell tales of the Hurricane Chasers -

those who claimed to love the thrill of the storm, but ran the moment the clear-up began. I

It is easier to tell tales of the Lion Tamers -

those who longed to hear my fearsome roar,

but loathed the subdued whimper that eventually emerged.

It is easier to tell tales of the boys whose sandpaper hands sought to shape me into something smaller,

than to talk of how you are the one man who steadfastly stood alongside me and encouraged me to grow.

I can’t write you poetry, because I was taught that to love meant to be hurt, not to be healed.

Because I believed that love was a battlefield, not a place of peace.

Because I learnt that everyone who loved me leaves.

But you have stayed.

I can’t write you poetry.

But.

If I wrote you a poem, I would write about anchors - steadiness and stability.

I would write about safe havens, and secure bases, and how for once it doesn’t feel scary to feel attached.

I would write about how when the world spins out of control, your eyes are all I need to keep me centred.

I can’t write you poetry.

But.

If I wrote you a poem, I would say that “forever” no longer feels like a lonely life sentence, but a promise.

A blessing.

An adventure.

I can’t write you poetry.

I’ve always felt sure that nobody would ever want me.

I felt sure that nobody would want me because I nobody liked me.

I knew that nobody liked me because I overwhelmed them.

I knew that I overwhelmed them because I overwhelmed myself.

Ever since I was a tiny child I’ve felt like I was too turbulent,

too loud,

too big.

I felt like I was taking up too much room.

And, try as I might, I couldn’t contain myself.

I couldn’t help but occupy every silence and fill all the empty spaces.

I couldn’t help but take up all the air in the room until I suffocated everyone around me.

Until it became too much, and they couldn’t cope.

Until they had to leave.

So for years I tried to fold myself into something smaller - to curb my own excesses and to become something more palatable: someone easier to understand, and easier to love.

And, as I always knew would happen, eventually I was too much for you too.

And the longer we were apart the more I imagined who you wished I could be: calmer, quieter, smaller.

I imagined a version of myself who talked less, and exercised more.

A person who would always say the right thing, and never spoke too much.

A person who took up less space and asked for less of your time.

A person who would never laugh too loud or shine too brightly only to end up reflecting badly on you.

I started to think that if I was was quieter, you’d listen to me more.

I started to think that if I was smaller, I’d be easier to handle.

I started to think that maybe if there was less of me, then I would be easier to love,

I read once that you catch more flies with honey, so I chose vinegar every time to ensure I would never end up trapped. I read once that sugar was more addictive than cocaine, so I chose salt and bitterness and told myself I was staying safe. I read once that the most successful predators keep their claws hidden, luring their prey into a false sense of security before going in for the kill. So I surrounded myself with scorpions and snakes and learned to steel myself for the inevitable blow.

And then he came along and he seemed soft and sweet and safe, so I forgot my carefully crafted rules and I let my guard down. It was only once I was trapped that I realised all that sweetness hid a rotten core, and as much as he hurt me I couldn’t seem to give him up. And by the time his claws came out to deliver the final blow I had nowhere to run.

And now all my instincts are telling me that you are different: that your words will not one day turn into weapons to be wielded against me, and your affection is not an affectation to keep me compliant, and I want to believe that this time I’ve got it right.

I read once that you should trust your gut, but mine has proven to be a faulty compass so many times and I am scared of getting lost again. I read once that you should listen to your heart instead of your head, but mine is one break away from shattering and I am scared it won’t be able to be fixed again.

The sun sets on another endless day;

darkness descends

And the house falls still.

I lie and listen to the silence, knowing it will not last for long.

For I am not the only one trapped in this house, and the skeletons that linger in these walls will never leave me alone.

Midnight has long since passed when the weeping starts.

Her cries carry through the night,

chilling my blood and cutting to the bone.

No matter how I try, I cannot block out her sobs and I cannot forget the sound.

There is nothing as heartbreaking or as haunting as a mother mourning her child.

A floorboard creeks outside my door.

My heart thuds in anticipation.

I hear a familiar voice singing a long-forgotten lullaby.

A hand brushes a tear from my cheek and I freeze - too afraid to move and scare him away.

It’s been so long since I felt the heat of his hugs, that I am certain I’ll constantly be cold.

There are children screaming in the garden.

It is hard to tell if the howls ringing through the air are of joy or of terror.

I don’t know if the bodiless voices come from the children we once were,

or those you never got to have.

I don’t know which I miss more.

I lie awake surrounded by memories and lost dreams,

and one through terrifies me.

Soon the sun will rise;

the house will grow silent and I will be alone once more -

A half dead wretch