The glasses you wear every day, begin to create a groove where they sit.
Every time you get a new pair; your skin, bone structure, have to learn the new frames.
Change is inevitable.
The grooves that we've made from the words we here are simply there.
We don't notice them until we start to hear something different.
New skin, new bone structure, have to learn new frames.
New words. New growth.
New grooves.
Uncomfortable.
Sit with it, adjust to the new frames.
You don't have a choice now.
You can still feel the old grooves.
Change is inevitable.
You miss your old glasses, because they were comfortable.
You miss the old words.
No matter how shitty they were, they were comfortable.
Gabbie Sigmon
About the Creator
Gabbie Sigmon
I can't figure out what my own name is. I woke up one day and didn't realize who I was. I got lost in translation between the version that everyone else created.
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
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