victoria donnelly

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Bitter Losses Are Lonely

She knew well 
the manner of giving,  
knew not to ask,
knew how to survive 
on smiles amid the
indebtedness 
an affliction 
from a childhood obligated 
to some person, preacher or other
And with not a kind hand among them
she found duty bred fear in its resistance. 

Love always ended like the rains 
that turned her pavements black
where 
she'd run
all plimsolls and pearls 
wearing pain 
like purple undergarments
that caught on fickle winds;
wondering if they
ever noticed the off-notes
like when her legs 
moved out of tune,
and did they feel her bristle 
on their faces 
of expected gratitude
or see how daubing her 
with their concrete greys 
of added responsibility 
only sheathed her
in a pin stiff frost of non-negotiable.

All she ever wanted 
was to be receptive  
and (not just)  
responsive
but would get lost 
in the just doing
of feeling a way 
through sex 
and vice
with words 
that didn't suffice;
loosing sight in the toughs
of their what was
and wasn't enoughs,
where bitter losses were lonely 
and negotiating on her knees 
never did feel good.
Fearful,  
that neither their sunshine nor rain
would quench her thirst
she reasoned
she would always struggle to 
accept their claims to her Love
while she 
still owed it to herself.

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