Things I haven’t said

Every time I see your face,
every time I think of you,
every time I notice how you keep your hair short these days,
I’m filled with the sadness and guilt that roars in the wake of failure.
It was not my job to make you happy,

but I wanted to.

I didn’t.
I failed.

It was not healthy for us to bend and fold, making origami out of our Selves for the sake of saving what was between us. But we tried.

And failed.

Now, you two look perfect together. And while my fingers twirled through the soft curls of a man with honest eyes, I noticed your fingers intertwined with his—the man with qualities that uncannily mirror me. It wasn’t the first time I saw you two together. He’s already giving you what you need and deserve because he doesn’t break away from your touch, proclaiming that he’s hot or has to use the bathroom or needs feed the cats.

You two fit,
and you look happy.

So maybe I didn’t fail after all.

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Rodney Dangerfield

The same thought repeats.
It could be
a phrase
the idea of a person
an exchange
that wanders its way,
undirected,
into my mind until it settles in,
and I’m unaware of it
until it occurs.

It sits,
not still,
and persists.
These thoughts that run
like a petulant child
who give zero fucks about me,
have no reason to consider
their human host without whom none of these thoughts would happen.

my emotions break loose and take advantage of me.

I gets no respect.