There’s a quiet struggle
involved in breaking free of yourself
and floating towards the happiness
slightly outside the self-pitying hymns
playing, repeat, playing in your head.
Drift outward, but not too far.
I’ve lost you many times
when you trapped yourself
in other people’s image of you.
Maybe, just maybe, writing will help
the anger from suffocating you, like usual.
Write sweet revenge fairytales
about men who have taken advantage,
discovered your weakness for touch:
He roamed your insides, your chest arching
towards him, a tambourine of pleasure.
It was love, until pant, kiss, pant,
butterflies smothered,
your heart was in his fist.
He chewed, incessantly chewed it,
ignoring the sea of redness surrounding him.
“Carry your cruelty,” you whispered to him,
tenderly stroking his hair.
And suddenly, the lovely monster
crawled on the dirty concrete, tears
falling down his cheeks.
“Repeat I’m a monster three times fast
while clicking your heels together
to save yourself,” you said
before vanishing.
Once the scene’s written, leave it.
You have a tendency of analyzing so much
that you confuse truth with fiction.
When you slowly start to drift back,
learn how to make something
other than sadness:
maybe lasagna or peanut butter chocolate cake.
Make it for yourself and not a group;
let everyone else have the leftovers.
–lissa
