All the time it took to get you out of my system, not even like my actual system, like my
Like the rituals of waking and moving and shaking about.
The pauses in between sessions and dinners and bathroom breaks.
Not in a lovely, sentimental way,
You permeated like a bug, filling in the cracks.
When I say there were problems with communication, I meant it in a big, bug way.
I felt a constant cord of communication, a drone and a buzzing of anticipation.
It became addictive in some manner, similar to my need for wine and tequila.
I didn’t want it but I gave in anyway.
You texted me yesterday morning, the same old same old,
My name with a rose.
Stuck on a vine, I was rotting there,
I don’t think because you were mean or cruel, I was rotting
Because you always wanted more and I only wanted my petals to face the wind and the sun and the moon,
I wanted to be held but not encased,
Smelled but not grabbed upon,
Touched gently but not pressed,
Tickled but not pulled.
Of course I became thorny.
And then I told myself I didn’t know how to love.
Here is this person, who cares for you, who needs you, who craves the very existence of you.
No one else will find you as beautiful, as charming, as effortlessly lucky to be with you.
The trouble with growth is you can’t unsee shit anymore without having to do some drastic numbing techniques, wine, sugar, sex, irritability.
I grabbed John’s dick yesterday and stroked him and had to work through my boredom.
How in the fuck did poly make me bored?
Because of the duty.
I scoff at duty.
Awww, it was so much duty.
There all the time.
Duty, duty, duty.
I choked on it.
But I ate it up.
Responsibility, sacrifice, push, push, push.
Pull, pull, pull.
But it hurt me.
It hurt me so badly.