Things were better than they are
He wants me to be more permanent
—craves it, he says.
It’s getting interesting,
now that I want to know
(I say distinctly; I mean exactly)
how he loves me.
Identifying love has always been difficult
It meant I had to lose friends;
made harsh behavior “justified.”
What makes bad actions okay?
Not love, not to me anyway.
How am I supposed to forgive,
am I really expected to forget?
Who is the real silly one, I wonder:
The girl with holes punched through
and her lose ends pulled
to tear her at the seams
all because there was love
bursting through the cracks of
her broken heart
or the boys who picked and grabbed
for things that weren’t theirs,
then got mad when it was taken back.
Collapsing thoughts do not lead to
souls falling into place.
Different way of loving or the same,
I’ve heard it all.
Is it sad that all love feels forced?
Is it sad that only I can see the truth?
Keep living your unexamined life.
Fearless and fearful, it’s all the same;
nothing more than a losing game.
I never got what was so appealing, so attractive
about the idea of forever
when there was potential sitting there,
but they’ve all asked for, wanted it.
Maybe if I turn the other cheek,
maybe if I stopped stitching things back together
and patching up the holes,
I would be okay with forever
because I’d live a lot less longer
as I watched the blood creep out of me
and into your arms.
Comments about this poem (Things were better than they are by Sammi Ama )
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