i've been waiting a long time to say "fuck you" right out loud (it's funny how good it feels)
(chances are
the pictures we paint -
of our lives and
especially of ourselves -
are more a mosaic of wishes
than the actual truth)
having said that, here i am -
returned from that hell
one one could name (before now).
that perpetual heat -
(wait, no. it was cold cold cold)
was too much for me -
i mean toward the end
all i could do was swear
on the holiest book i could find
(neruda, if you're curious)
that at least i was doing
"the right thing."
for her, i mean.
i was doing the right thing for her,
while simultaneously reminding myself
that i was alive, too.
that OTHER heart beating inside me -
it's mine
and it's going to break
if i don't break away.
worry over that comes more easily
when apocalyptic hopes
threaten to consume me.
on second thought -
maybe it's not a good idea to
mention how i feel,
or mention what i wanted from life.
my lofty expectations have never
been of any importance to you.
i'm mature enough to know that.
at least.
so, no. i am not going to be
your perfect little housewife.
i am only this.
i am only a small town girl
who has her wicked way with words -
so close your eyes, darling,
and this won't hurt a bit.
this is where i explain
what a waste we were.
as if i haven't, in my life,
left better men than you
for lesser reasons than this.
as if your promises to take care of me
meant any more than the next man's.
you never loved me,
so where does the fault line lie?
you just wanted to make up
for the spaces inside me that
you'd never get your mind around -
i gave up months ago
on trying to take you apart,
so you waited for me to come undone,
and break down
(white flag)
but instead i hold steady.
well, now
any way you see it, we're over
and you can shrug and
look away with that
indifference that DEFINES you
but you must admit
how strange and shocking it is
that i'm the one forfeiting with some grace
before getting knocked out in round two.
and the scriptwriters who
have yet to find any better definition for:
"big mistake"
are free to compose what they will.
but for now...
"Dear Baby's Daddy:
It's not me anymore, it's you.
Please find someone else to settle for what you thought was "good enough" but I think I'd rather be lonely than be yours. Don't forget to smile for the cameras.
Sincerely,
The Incubator."
the pictures we paint -
of our lives and
especially of ourselves -
are more a mosaic of wishes
than the actual truth)
having said that, here i am -
returned from that hell
one one could name (before now).
that perpetual heat -
(wait, no. it was cold cold cold)
was too much for me -
i mean toward the end
all i could do was swear
on the holiest book i could find
(neruda, if you're curious)
that at least i was doing
"the right thing."
for her, i mean.
i was doing the right thing for her,
while simultaneously reminding myself
that i was alive, too.
that OTHER heart beating inside me -
it's mine
and it's going to break
if i don't break away.
worry over that comes more easily
when apocalyptic hopes
threaten to consume me.
on second thought -
maybe it's not a good idea to
mention how i feel,
or mention what i wanted from life.
my lofty expectations have never
been of any importance to you.
i'm mature enough to know that.
at least.
so, no. i am not going to be
your perfect little housewife.
i am only this.
i am only a small town girl
who has her wicked way with words -
so close your eyes, darling,
and this won't hurt a bit.
this is where i explain
what a waste we were.
as if i haven't, in my life,
left better men than you
for lesser reasons than this.
as if your promises to take care of me
meant any more than the next man's.
you never loved me,
so where does the fault line lie?
you just wanted to make up
for the spaces inside me that
you'd never get your mind around -
i gave up months ago
on trying to take you apart,
so you waited for me to come undone,
and break down
(white flag)
but instead i hold steady.
well, now
any way you see it, we're over
and you can shrug and
look away with that
indifference that DEFINES you
but you must admit
how strange and shocking it is
that i'm the one forfeiting with some grace
before getting knocked out in round two.
and the scriptwriters who
have yet to find any better definition for:
"big mistake"
are free to compose what they will.
but for now...
"Dear Baby's Daddy:
It's not me anymore, it's you.
Please find someone else to settle for what you thought was "good enough" but I think I'd rather be lonely than be yours. Don't forget to smile for the cameras.
Sincerely,
The Incubator."