The first thing that comes to mind
isn’t the tone of your pleads,
or the size of your gifts,
or the adornments that pride my shelf,
or the lovely sound of your kind words,
all in the assumption that I was alone,
and needed help.
But I wasn’t alone.
Don’t you see?
You claim you know me, you claim you understand what makes me happy,
yet it is a construction of your mind,
an image you designed to make me seem
agreeable, acceptable, lovable.
I played a note, yet, there was no sound.
I shattered little, and no homes were harmed,
it was a peaceful endeavor. You cannot control me,
there is nothing in here to control, and I do not want the lives of those I hurt
to be a reminder. I want them to be gone.
That last memory of yours,
that little piece of me, you say,
that was nothing, not even a sound.
And you condemn me for screaming.
I turned nothing off. Nothing in me changed.
I am still in a constant state of withdrawal,
an ever hesitant pluck, a never vibrating string,
always waiting for the next time I exploded,
like a breaking of a cup on the floor,
like a cacophony of the smallest of things.
I still walked away and trashed your place,
Looking for that part of you you seem to forget,
that thing I once saw in you, which I see rarely,
and never with me on the other end.
No, the first thing that comes to mind
is your face.
Staring at me, watching, observing me
play. Waiting for the moment I break,
and show myself to you,
as if that is a thing that can happen.
As if I can pull myself apart and pull out my desires and give them to you
on a platter.
It is as if you do not understand the purpose of a wall.
You might hate me,
and I understand it all,
I have never hurt you,
nor will I.
But what have I done
other than let you watch when you wanted?
This is one side to another poem, written here. They should be read together.
This was the second one I wrote of the two. I wrote it in a
train, on a whim. I felt I needed to respond to the previous one. It was
too much for me to leave alone. So I responded to it. Following the
same form, following the exact same structure (there should be the exact
same number of lines in each poem).
I think I might like this one more, actually.