my eyes are open and i am waking
still expecting him to be here
but it was all a dream
i won't find him anywhere but in my head
because i don't want to try to save him
and despite misleading me
he doesn't want a partner
he wants an enabler
and if i let him back in
when he only comes when i stop chasing
just to turn around and leave again
when i am sleeping
or when i need him
or he tells me that he will
because he always does
he doesn't show
and he never is
then to demand he needs me
wanting me to mind his pints and quarts
begging for my support
through situations for which he refused and scorned me
forgetting, rewriting, and denying every slight
accusing my defenses as aggression
when he won't leave or give my space back
because he needs me smaller
just for him to feel big
because i take my pleasure very seriously
and i demand passion, beauty, and joy
in all of the things.
About the Creator
⸘jason alan‽
:::WARNING:::
i am only responsible for what i say,
not for what you understand.
you may learn to be charmed by my [secret‽] discontent,
or you may not.
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More stories from ⸘jason alan‽ and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Recipe for Nostalgia
Preheat the evening to dusk, when the light turns everything soft enough to forgive. Start with one smell you can't explain—strawberry fields rushing past as she pressed against your back, her arms around you a sign that you make her feel safe. Set your heart to high heat—to that night the security guard found you, his knuckles on glass like shouts in a cathedral, interrupting a sacred moment of worship. Bake with her simple joy until the air remembers how she pulled you onto that dance floor, her hips already fluent in a language your feet were still stuttering. At exactly half-past back when, press play on the song that made her throw her head back laughing when you made up your own words. Let the first chord open the trapdoor under your ribs. Find the old hoodie she borrowed and hold it like a saint's garment (Over-handling may cause her perfume to fade). If it still fits, that's how you know nostalgia is lying; if it doesn't, that's how you know it's working. Add the longing in slowly—enough to swell every memory of her groaning at your puns, but not so much it leaks into regret. Mix in the three words she finally said for the first time ever. Scatter Polaroids on the counter, shuffle hands until every card shows her mid-laugh at something terrible you said. Fold-in the way her body twinged in anticipation when you’d gently touch it. Beat the urge to call her. Decorate with her last name—the one she planned to leave behind for you. Prepare for the ache in your temples; remember, this is a side effect, not a symptom. Garnish with the voicemail she left on your birthday, that you saved to listen to when you wanted to think of her. Serve in porcelain chipped by other lives. Nostalgia is best when shared, but may also be consumed shamelessly, in the blue glow of the fridge at 2 am. Store leftovers in your chest cavity. Reheat as necessary.
By SUEDE the poet3 days ago in Poets
The Saddest Thing - The Billionaires Who Rule America Aren't Even Enjoying Themselves
This single post says more about our ruling class than a thousand policy papers. The saddest thing about today's system is that the men robbing the rest of us - sabotaging our economic prospects, our pensions, our access to affordable healthcare - are not even happy.
By Scott Christenson🌴5 days ago in The Swamp
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