I cried 3 times on Wednesday
isn’t how it usually goes
makes it no less true
Once for me
Once for her
Once for me again
Recounting a story about
17 year old me
Pathetic me. Predicably me.
Funny how 20 years can pass
and still that fucking jab in your belly
is still as vicious and stabbing. Funny how easily I remember
that I would eat whole… or bury in concrete
if I could.
probably too personal to share
but share I did, because I have to let it out sometimes
a story about a butterfly
and a little purple blanket and a little flower
a baffled friend
who didn’t know how to stop me from sobbing
in the middle of the cafeteria at work
I always think that I won’t cry when I tell that story
and I always do. I always will.
And again, for me
because, why not?
It’s almost midnight and my thoughts are raw
and my skin vibrates and pulls
a day full of stories
and a night thick with fear
that I’m kidding myself