Drunken Poetry Master - Poetica Spontenaium 6.18.03
(Caveat. Fiction. No really. Memories evoked by reading journal entries 10 years ago. And those from 6 years past. About *that* experience 10 years ago. And that exboyfriend 6 years past. Yeah, *that one* experience that plagued me with nightmares for several years. And *that one*. That guy. The one that drove me in a rusty tractor over rude and rocky roads towards gin & prozac cocktails. And pushing my fist throgh a mirror so I had to get 3 stitches accross the knuckle. Remember that? Wasn’t that fun? Remember him? Yeah. That one. And yeah, to some degree, I *do* still motherfucking hate him. And him too. No regrets on that. )
Instead.
Instead of weakness.
Instead of needing.
Instead of wipping myself with my own regret till the ghosts suffocated me with dark waters at midnight again.
And you. Yeah you.
Instead of understanding that my heart two
sizes too large for my ribs
Chooses to be half scabbed over
Than shrink for missing you.
Instead of dreaming.
Instead of sobbing.
Instead of thrashing underneath the cum-stained sheets.
Alone. And wondering how.
I choose to remind myself of why I should hate you.
But can’t admit so. Not in polite company anyways.
Instead of throwing myself onto broken glass
And twisting an arrow inside my belly
I listen. And I wait.
Time punishes you far harsher than me.
You’re an adverb not a noun. Never a subject.
You are vile
And my pussy sours at the notion of having ever fucked you.
Yeah.
That’s how much I don’t miss you.
I just thought you ought to know.
It’s about time.
