Like a chemist, she found the formula to make my heart pump blood from my brain to her heart and back again.
When we're close, I can feel her heartbeat; mine races with insecurity.
I'd burn anything to condemn the beating of this lie.
The lie that I'm not good enough.
I've torn myself to knots, she says.
But the way her makeup stains my pillowcase is the lonely position of indecision.
I'd burn myself from within to feel her breath against my skin—to feel her breath against my neck.
I'd burn her house to the ground (metaphorically) because that just who I am this week.
I'm a notch on her bedpost.
I was a notch on her bedpost.
Until I asked her to marry me.
She said, sure why the hell not, blowing smoke in my face
I laughed under a breath.
We touched.
We kissed.
We tangled in her bedsheets.
We made love.
I felt her heartbeat, and she felt mine.
She took sandpaper,
Scratching the lines on her bedpost.
She said I'm the best she'd ever had.
And, she said If I ever left her, she'd burn this city.
YOU ARE READING
The Lonely Position of Neutral
PoetryBen's throat cancer has returned. Living a lonely life, he found a woman he loves but finds out she's been unfaithful. Ben starts to think the lonely position of neutral isn't that bad. He writes poems and dialogue narratives. Will Ben survive cance...
