the measure of a distant breath

I won’t hold onto
your words anymore.
in the quiet distance of our hearts,
friendship . . .

the one thing you threw to the wind
is neither cautious nor safe.

I cannot chase an inevitable “no”–
not when I am worthy of

an enviable “yes.”

selfish Gods die by their own hands.
here, let me take off those chains.

To Be Lonely In Love

Fear by Maria Iakunchikova–1893-1895

I feel tightness in my bones,
breathing at night is exhausting . . .
But morning gives me another
opportunity to appreciate life.
You notice that I cut
my hair.

You tell me that you miss
the way it hung past my shoulders,
free-flowing like the wind.
I nod, make mindless conversation
with you, small talk.

We kiss,
our lips barely touching.
I feel nothing.
You remind me to take the
steak out of the freezer for
dinner.

The red potatoes, you say, will
be a great partner.
I remember the fresh asparagus
we bought from our grocer’s
a few days ago.
We plan to be home by 6 pm.

I spend five hours at work
drowning myself in everything
but you.
You call promptly at 11:30 am
to inquire about the steak
as if I’d forget to let it thaw.
We chit chat, I tell you
a meeting is beginning without me
and we end the call.

I flashback to when my heart
thumped nonstop at the thought
of you, when I raced home to
sit near your lazy arms on
our comfy couch, and when

your voice stirred me up
with overwhelming feelings.
I come back to now
and do everything within my
power to forget who you were.
It makes loving you easier.
It makes living with you tolerable.
But, I am still lonely.


Here is another recently rejected poem by a prominent literary magazine. What better place to share it than here? Thank you for reading.

Afraid of Healing

Who are we if we don’t know pain? If we don’t grow from it? I had to reblog this because I read it and it hit me and it stuck with me.

Please visit the writer’s blog to comment there, should you want to. Peace.

INTROVERSE

In Their Own Words By Nathan Bond

Afraid to heal my deep wounds

Afraid life will be too simple

Afraid of missing the pain

Afraid I won’t have an excuse to disappear

Afraid I won’t need to scream at the top of my lungs when I’m too weak

Afraid I won’t grow without trauma

Afraid I’ll never be the same

I’m afraid of change

View original post

scorn

Musical Selection|India Arie: That Magic

The Scornful Woman by Egon Schiele — 1910

she’d been hurt before —
this scorned woman who is learning
how to love again — live again.
I sit on my balcony and watch her
carry on with her day as if
the sun woke up just for her.

she saunters to her car,
pulls the door open, and
jumps into it ready for another
day of whatever it is that
she does for a living.

I keep my distance.
I speak when spoken to.
I do not draw good energy from
her, so it is my duty to make sure
our interactions are few.

my monster of a dog shows
her teeth at her shadow,
barks when she strikes the
ignition.
I take heed.

there are some of us who
cannot conjure up
a welcoming spirit — too stuck
in the past to allow ourselves to
witness the future.

too afraid to move forward
and march into something new.
I was where she is and
I remember how my soul
smelled.
I turned people off.

there’s always a bit of
magic around, enough to
push us into the light of day.
I think she will be
okay the moment her
feet touch illuminated ground.

I can’t take her there,
even if I do know the way — these
paths have to be walked
by those who need the journey.

I will, however, make sure
she has someone rooting
for her from the sidelines.
I think my sign is
big enough for her to see.


Originally published via Medium.