Feelings

My cheeks felt hot

as blood rushed to my face,

partly due to embarrassment,

and partly wine.

You flashed me your phone,

asking me what this was,

and I looked at the screen

with genuine curiosity.

I saw the message,

asking if you knew that you

made your sister, me,

cry, earlier this evening.

I kept this facade, mimicking

a Victorian angel,

seeking refuge in my room

when you’d been too abrupt,

and judged my evening hosting

for not being hospitable enough.

I’ve been living without my litter,

a former rabbit, slowly peeking

from my warm nest,

burrow not to your standard,

walls too thin, disorganized,

unkempt.

Feast of flora set before you, 

lacking fauna

you so crave.

You have upset me often, lately.

I keep it to myself,

buried like a secret,

in a hovel full of trinkets,

half-dried flowers, 

and fluff.

Now, uncovered, 

I uncomfortably stand,

admitting that, yes, 

your demeanor, mean,

your bite, not playful,

and I recoil to a position

where I simply say,

“I’m sorry.”

I apologize to you for being

cruel to me.

It’s easier this way, you see.

Easier than telling you,

the timing of your response,

the way you came 

to expose my feelings, 

in front of everyone, is unjust.

I just

wanted to tell someone

the truth because it eats me up

that you don’t want to see

how the energy you brought

into my household soured

everyone’s mood. 

We were laughing, and singing, 

before

you got there.

Domestic

You will never get the apology you want.

It’s not that he is incapable of crafting

such a thing.

He can utter a handful of heartfelt phrases;

you fall for them

because your words carry weight, and

you expect his to be true.

He will never be 

what you wish for him:

gentle, kind, understanding.

He is blinded by his own rage

and suffering.

Cast out the dreams of what could be,

and allow him to withdraw from 

your thoughts.

He no longer deserves a place

in your mind, nor in your heart.

These places are sacred,

and he is a wolf, slavering

at your pity, playing on 

compassion, pursuing you, 

only as his prey.

A Mid-Morning Fight

I hate the way that words rip
the air, lashing at me,
gritted teeth, unheard points
because ‘I never take your side’.
I just want a day I actually like
who I am, without my personality contorted in retort.
Clenched fists, and bellowing,
doesn’t speak highly of the love
you keep claiming is still there.

I want to be the girl who made you feel
like it was worth it to wake up,
and not be the perfectionist,
some emotionally aloof savant,
who ‘wrote the book on communication”.
Yet, I play the villian in your novel.
I make you follow rules and order,
and you will liberate yourself,
by insulting my intellegence.