You are cluttering my drafts. A line here, a stanza there, a half-fleshed-out thought saved, and here I am, starting something new again.
By Kay Husnickabout a year ago in Poets
Don't wait by the phone. I am caught red-handed, as in checking-your-read-receipts-handed, the stars see all or maybe I am just that predictable,
I pull on sleeves and lace up boots, fingers fumbling in excitement, and quick glances out the window confirm it, the first snow of the season.
You can call me if you want, send a text, it would still come through, stalk my social media like you used to. I unblocked you on everything, but
I tell you pretty words write them out, share them with the world, and you know they are for you, but there is so much more to say
You convince yourself all communication is conflict, so conversations become arguments in a split second, and you pull out crazy insults with no hesitation.
I have dreams about drowning on nights when my anxiety gets bad. A car goes down into water. I avoid it the best I can. It's the anticipation of flooding in my lungs—
He is every thing I have ever wanted, a check marked in every box, the originals, the non-negotiables, the ones I have never checked off before.
Thumb to fingertips and deep breaths, I am pulling out old coping skills, repeating mantras in the dark. I am pushing through nausea like a pro,
I hear him strumming along over the phone, matching "Daphne Blue" on his guitar as it plays on my TV. He finally figured out that last part of the chorus,
Push me to my limits and watch me crack recoil at the impact, point a finger, call me out my reactions to your poking, prodding, spat-out insults are unacceptable,
My horoscope advises forgiveness, prophesizes some unwanted returns let people come back to you, but I have never been one for doing as I'm told;
