Curate, connect, and discover
So ends the collection, To Save A Wretch Like Me. I hope you enjoyed, whether you read the entire collection, or only caught a few poems along the way. If you haven't had a chance to read the whole thing but enjoyed what you saw, I'd encourage you to go back to the beginning and read the collection, since I think it works well as a combined product. Whatever your feelings on my work, though, I'd love to hear from you, praise, critique, comments, or questions. Or jokes. Whatever, really.
Thank you for reading!
Sadness was my gut reaction
when I saw her picture in your wallet.
She: more beautiful than me,
eyes brighter than mine,
her smile sweet, pure honey.
But behind my sadness came joy.
Joy that you have someone so beautiful,
someone to love and to love you
as once upon a time I did. What we became was
ugly, but it taught us life. We were not a waste.
But as our beautiful flowers bloomed,
we came to see we could not share the sun.
Our petals grew shriveled and brown,
choked by the harsh sting of broken promises,
of life and truth, and what is not meant to be.
He is now my light, and she is now your fire,
and as we grow apart we will grow closer to them,
and they will and lift us up toward the sun, and
we will be alive. Apart, we will grow to be
the beauty that we now know we can be.
Upon this wall I sit and watch the tide
roll in and out, affection for the sand
as indecisive as your touch. Your hand
grazes mine. Is it true we really tried?
Perhaps I missed it when you tried to hide.
Your touch lingers, and I feel it demand
a part of me that no longer can stand.
Was this love just far too long denied?
But there was something here, and it still is
alive somewhere inside our broken hearts.
This poem is far too sentimental,
And yet I feel somewhere, somehow that this
needs to be said, before we fall apart
and crash into the waves that we feel call.
You forced a laugh and told me
You were heartless
As your head fell into your hands,
Hiding a pained smile.
I’m glad you’re a liar.
Cut through the pallid skin of the fresh corpse of winter. Bleed beginnings.
The close of winter is a silent night, still darkness giving in to a vibrant day.
Dying frost. Awakening Blooms. Welcome to a new world.
Sweet, the scent of birdsong and blue.
In the movies, this is where the newborn enters the scene.
The dawn light breaks on pale pink, the bright call
of miles to go before I sleep.
I swear it’s too hot for this time of year.
Venus, why bring love in Spring if it dies in winter?
Dying minus the end equals resurrection.
You know, I really love it when you pretend
that I don’t exist.
You climbed out of your car,
alone in the grocery store parking lot.
We made eye contact,
I almost dropped my bag of eggs.
You locked the car and zipped up your jacket
and jogged to the door, out of the cold
as if I never even existed.
Not even a smile?
The least you could do is acknowledge me.
My stomach clenches as
I shove food into my trunk.
My appetite is gone.
Time can never erase the taste, the touch,
the heat of smooth, soft skin. My fingertips
ached to pull him closer. Hands felt my hips,
urging me onward, still forward. So much
depends upon simple contact, and such
sweet, plum caresses from succulent lips.
But this is not quite right. Fantasy rips
and he is not my warmth, the one I clutch.
Not lover, friend, my partner strong and bold,
who brings me to my sweetest, perfect form.
He is a stranger, a poor substitution,
an improper plaster cast, hard and cold.
He could never mold to your humor or charm.
You are gone, he is just an illusion.
A special snowflake disappears on warm skin
just like all the others.
Frost laden bark skeletons scar the sky,
casting shadows in the sub-zero sun
shining on the deathly pallor coating the ground.
The branches look so alone
without leaves to bridge the gaps.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
There is no desire left to melt this frozen world.
Palms sweat thick as blood. I fold them so as not
to stain my skirt, too clean, too white. The wine of redemption
burns my throat, bitter next to the sweet sin so heavy on my
unholy mind. The call to confess crushes the
soul. There are no secrets left. I can’t look up, can’t
burn my eyes with the sight of his neck, red with the embarrassment
of awareness beneath a shock of blond. He sits two rows ahead,
his head bowed in humility, and I sink to the depths of the
earth, opening to swallow me beneath the altar before me,
drowning me in the tears of the women at the cross.
Confess?
Hard rock as the door lock slides
slowly into place, drowning out the
memory of your face before you
stepped over the threshold. The
timing was wrong but I had hoped we
would fight to save what wasn’t yet
broken. Now headless dolls stumbling
aimlessly across the toy box are what
we have become. Too far even to run
back into ear shot. Turn the music up.
At least I told the truth, and yet
the truth of the matter is that none of it matters.
Reasons why, what made it die, the goodbyes-
I cry but none of the questions wash away.
It just makes mud, mudding up my mind,
making me wonder more and more: why?
I wish I had that answer.
I wish you had that answer.
I wish, as you sat there in your leather jacket
with no shirt, and me underdressed
in faded pajamas and old jeans,
I wish you could have said- or maybe I don’t.
To accept that it happened is
a challenge alone. To know why is more than
I could stand. Who, what, when, and where:
these will have to do. I’ll never accept a reason
why you can’t forgive me the way I forgave you.
You step over the threshold to the
sounds of Beethoven and Mozart. Beautifully
complicated, an enigma I plan to spend
my life solving. Figuring you out is a
full time job, but all I’m paid is promises
and disappointments, affection and fear.
The definition of forever grows smaller
and smaller, a wrung out sponge. Will
we be the ones to soak it full again?
Arpeggios leave out what’s in between.
The third and final part of the collection, To Save A Wretch Like Me, contains the resolution for the lovers as they reach their rock bottom and are left to pick themselves up and find their way back to themselves on their own.
Awake in a photo. Black and white, head hurts too much for color. Loose black slacks drape over a barely there dress on the floor. Milk on the nightstand in front of a background of wood. My hands rest on my stomach. Is milk on my skin? Man’s milk, perhaps. I want milk. What did I do last night? Rolling over, see what I did. He has a stressed smile, spindly at the ends, emblazoned with a promise. Don’t think I want what he’s offering. A sour taste coats my mouth. Turn over, drink the milk. If only the creamy froth could make my insides in its image. The word “milk” crowns everything. I too would like to be pure white.
I saw you, anonymous among the masses, a
passerby spending some time. Come closer,
lead me into artificial intimacy. Body on body,
eat me, crave me. A strange, succulent sweet.
Are we still strangers? I feel I know you so well.
Do you even know my name? Does it matter?
Give me more and who we are won’t matter.
Under these pulsing lights we could be anyone.
I am yours, sweet stranger, just for this song.
Let the beat hide our fears, inhibitions, and
those who are holding us back. The air is hot,
you stick to me. Sweaty sheets and mussed up makeup.
This time of year the rain turns cold.
Amber leaves rustle, threatening to fall.
Before long everything smells of golden brown.
The leaves are most striking right before they die.
They dance in the wind, wild horses with no reins,
As vibrant as a painting from the hands of Van Gogh.
The plunge starts when the will to live minus gravity equals zero.
At last the drop. A gust of wind. Finally, ground.
Once again at rest. Beauty: their last request.
Give it back, the lost color, the lost time.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
God, will the cycle ever end?
Sugared words drip from
sultry lips, making his threshold
glow with the red heat of
inner fire as he opens the door
to the jasmine scent in the evening chill.
She is the one from before.
May I come in?
He thinks it’s better she didn’t.
Jezebel in a cashmere sweater
pouts. I thought you left her.
The fire winks out.
Bitch, you wanna see me sweat?
You shoulda seen me on top of him.
When you heard the news did you
think you’d won? I hate to break
it to you, but hon, even without my
touch he still thinks I’m good in bed.
And that’s when he’s thinking with
both heads. At least he was the
only one I shed my clothes for. I’m
sorry, I’m sure you needed the ego
boost when you realized he was too
good for you. Sweetheart,
green is not your color.
Low beats pound deep beneath our
skin so close under wrinkled sheets.
Sweat as heat penetrates our bodies,
pressed against each other, gripping,
unrelenting. Keep the rhythm of what
you’re giving to me. Please. Release the
hate you make me feel. Least of all
I love you. Most of all I love you.
Shades of gray but I’m seeing red.
Your touch is more forgiving than any priest.
Kiss me until it’s cliché and
I’ll tell you I hate you. Drugs
will kill me. Too bad I’m addicted.
You are the lemon in my tea.
Squeeze into my wounds.
The sting makes me love you more.
Our warmth chills me to the bone.
A yarn sweater unraveling
as you pull mine off in the
backseat of your car,
idling in my empty driveway
when I get home.
This end is a beginning
for better and for worse.
Lover, I cannot stand you.
I will run from this bi-polar
love affair. Run into your arms.
Give me a kiss. Push me away.
Even the unending waves must
come and go with the tide,
pulsing steam on frozen windows.
The church is cold as I perch on my pew.
The heater is broken again, third time
this winter. The preacher has begun his
sermon, but all I hear is the silence of your
absence.
My phone rings. It should turn it off,
especially since it’s playing our song.
I know it’s you. I shouldn’t answer.
I stand and duck out to the lobby.
I know judgmental looks are following me.
Your hesitant hello send heat coursing
through my frozen veins, awakening
my stifled senses. Brother Phillip’s
voice echoes over the loud speaker,
but his words are as distant as God.
All I hear is your heavy breathing.
It hits me as I see your face
smiling bright from the photograph,
green eyes shining, blond hair
brushed perfectly to the side.
I resent you for giving up on me.
I always thought things
you would come back.
You and me, together, for better
or worse.
This is worse, but we are not together.
Did you forget that you are the love of my life?
I meant it when I said it then. I mean it now.
I see your smile and I feel
the love and I resent you
for giving up so soon.
I wanted so badly to be yours.
I thought you wanted me badly too.
I guess our want was not enough.
His heart took a swan dive,
spelunking into his stomach with
a sickening splash. He could see
the hate in her eyes,
the hurt he’d brought her.
He had to look away.
He sees his stark reflection in the
glass of the door before it
slides silently away, welcoming him
into the forgiving warmth of the store,
warmth he knows he doesn’t deserve.
I said I never want to see you again
(with anyone but me). The jazz
from the record player challenges
you to leave. Your words break my
bones (but your kisses are a splint).
Believe me, I can live without you
(if I’m already dead). I swear I’ll
go on if you leave (everyone else
behind). Push and sway in time,
give away your heart (it’s mine).
Forgive and forget is so cliché.
I say never give away the past.
I’ll make everything up to you, love.
Hands grasping hers, knee against the steering wheel.
The shadow of the steeple blankets them
through the windshield, crossing his heart.
He is Judas, throwing back the silver.
He is not who he was. Neither is she.
And yet they’ve been here before.
I’d never do anything to hurt you
On the phone
at 3 AM. The line goes dead
as I wonder if I took hold of you
The way you took hold of me.
You sank into my mind
And made it your home.
You still captivate me.
My mind is full of you
and all your empty promises.
It’s not fair that you were
Able to grab me so quickly.
You swept me up
Before I had a chance to
See what was happening.
Why do I love you?
Why don’t I hate you?
I wish I could read your mind
Just to know what you think
When I see you walk in
at 3:47, tears in my eyes,
because I know from the
scent of that jasmine perfume
just where you’ve been.
You ask why I always
Assume the worst
And I tell you that
If I assume the worst
I can’t be disappointed.
But the truth is, I always
Assume the worst
Because all I want
Is for you to tell me
Just how wrong I am.
You don’t think I love you enough? How the hell
can I love you when I hardly know how to love
me? Who even am I? Why am I asking you,
if you bothered to know you wouldn’t tell me
to love you more when you know I love you
more than anything. Oh, but I guess that’s not
enough for the man who takes everything except
a chance to put someone else first.
Love, your friend:
Sweetie, the roses are all dying now,
They’ve withered and faded beyond repair.
And though you water them I can see how
They still have gone, despite your watchful stare.
Sweetie, the roses have all bowed their heads,
A sign of goodbye in this cold, dark room.
The stems have gone black and their bodies shed
Their petals and leaves far into the gloom.
Sweetie, sometimes I think you are a rose
He’s drying you up petal by petal.
I watch you lie down and as your eyes close,
I see your heart is now withered, brittle.
Sweetie, you know deep inside this is wrong.
Inside your heart is not where he belongs.
Is that love in your eyes, or are you just happy to
see me? Me, naked above you, beneath you,
around you. My bible lies open in the backseat,
Samson and Delilah. My legs clench your waist,
pulling you closer, deeper, further into this
stark truth: there’s no hiding from you now.
Every inch of me bare, my ugly flaws and
rosy lies, sketched across my inner thighs.
Am I good for a game? Love and sex are not
the same. There’s nothing to see here past
the hills and valleys of dimples and curves.