when you realize you are not compatible as you thought you once were

i thought i did something that made you mad

made you hate the way i blink

or hate the way i shiver when it’s cold outside

i thought i did something that just

made you look at me the wrong way

did i say….something?

was it something that slipped

from my lips?

i can safely assume that

it didn’t mean shit-

i talk a lot.

and a lot of what i say doesn’t mean much.

it’s just hunch, i guess

but if i were pressed, 

i could not recall saying something so terrible

something so awful that you could not bear

to look at me anymore

this isn’t fair-

i asked what was wrong

you said nothing- or that it was something

but, now, you didn’t care, 

not anymore

and i wasn’t sure

if you meant you didn’t care about

what i did or what i said

or if you meant you didn’t care about

me….anymore.

it’s just that this state of quiet ambiguity

doesn’t relieve me from thinking

of every worst-case-scenario.

your silence or inability to speak

just gives me more time to think about

this terrible thing i must have done….

or this atrocious thought i may have uttered….

I felt this cold breeze, under your breath….

i shivered- you shuddered...

and i’m not sure if it’s just coincidence anymore

it’s like i am a scene from a gory horror movie

and you are not a fan of the grotesque

you try to watch me, you try your best,

but can’t help to look away when my parts

get a little messy or get a little dark.

eventually you can’t appreciate me

just by peaking through your fingers

eventually i am too gruesome

for you to convince yourself

that i am worth watching…

eventually, you tell me,

you’re more into thrillers,

that they’re a little more your speed

and that you don’t feel the need to

shut your eyes at the best parts….

that thrillers are more sophisticated

and horror is overrated,

but you don’t mind that i like it

and i worry that you do mind

and that i am now synonymous with horror

and bad taste

and maybe that’s why you can’t look at my face?

or maybe i’m just looking too much into

movie preferences,

and that over-analyzing things like this is just

one of my many defenses 

but what else do i do?

i’ve already asked you and you said it was nothing

but the change in the way you say “i love you”

feels like something…

feels like goosebumps on my skin

feels like dry, dry, cottonmouth

and cracked lips,

feels like swallowing a stone

and it sitting in my stomach, sinking,

me just sitting there, thinking 

about how our dynamic has shifted 

from sweet kisses on each other’s shoulders

to big boulders in stomachs

from soft skin against soft skin

to rubbing, rough, goosebumps 

with sickened hands

you are disgusted by the curves

that once captivated you

and i cannot conceive the reason why.

and you cannot bring the words,

“i love you”

to the tip of your tongue,

not anymore,

not like when we were young

and things were good

and i hadn’t said the thing

or done the deed

that would

make you hate me so much

how could i have been such…

have i been anything…?

aside from who i’ve always been?

have i always been this way?

i don’t think i’ve changed

i’ve always liked horror movies

and i’ve always laughed too loud,

talked too much,

been too emotional

i’ve always shivered when it’s 

cold outside,

though my definition of cold has changed.

do you not like the way i think 45 degrees

is t-shirt weather? 

or that 75 degrees is too hot?

is that the why you’d rather not 

share the covers?

because your “too cold”

is my “just right?”

and we can’t agree on a suitable

temperature?

i can change my thermostat-

make you comfortable,

i am willing to change

i can start watching thrillers

and be more sophisticated,

i will do my best to 

make you

satiated

all i ask is to be 

appreciated...

but if you can't do that

and you insist on staying silent,

then i insist you just let me leave

because i can’t carry your

heavy sighs,

and i refuse to look into straying eyes-

i am worth your time

i am worth all of the time that

i have left on the world

and i won’t leave soon-

not the world….

but maybe you.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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