I was in an emotionally abusive relationship,
but all of my friends don’t understand the extent.
I’d even agree I have minor culpability
for using the stock reply provided me by toxic masculinity:
“Oh dude, she’s crazy.”
Which means typically,
“She didn’t let me party and got mad she ditched her on Thanksgiving.”
But here reads,
“I’m not sure exactly, but something vaguely cluster B that left me feeling worthless with little self-esteem, and the realization I hadn’t actually dealt with anything emotionally which caused me to further sequester and was quite isolating, and there was also the time she threatened to use my nudes, but I don’t remember exactly what the hell I had to do to deserve the threat even as a ruse. Scarier part is sometimes I still think I deserve it. Even after she cheated at least two times, possibly more, but not like I’m trying to keep score.”
And probably, I don’t want to be seen as vulnerable or something
or maybe typing this out once was tiring enough and I don’t want to remember all of the stuff.
The weakness, the guilt, the shame.
I’m still embarrassed, and I didn’t do anything wrong. I still feel like I deserved it.
I cleared out the email attached to this blog.
Thousands of new posts WordPress needed to share.
Over a year, receiving robotic notes,
and nothing else.
two naked birches
withering in the background
as you exhale smoke
The tree where we sat
now submerged in the river.
The hand of a clock.
Oversized Tungsten rings
toddler’s father’s shoes
you’ll never quite grow into.
Poets are the rare, odd types
with just enough self-importance to feel
they have vital truths to share
and the consideration to be terse.
I read the other day
92% of people think
they’re much more moral
than most other people.
Do you think they just gloss over
all their minor transgressions
and minor suggestions
they received on how to be nicer?
All I know is I can’t monitor my tone,
and I should probably get better
at picking up the phone,
and I should definitely roll my eyes less.
So many little lessons
I’m so bad at implementation,
but at least now nightly water glasses
don’t crowd either of our nightstands.
I think I started this poem
as some form of self-validation
like thinking I’m worse
somehow makes me better.
At least I remember what
and how it relates
to my conscience.
92% of the time,
I think I’m much worse than I am,
but I really can’t tell
if that puts me with 8% of people.