Never date a writer

Time machine,
take me back to when things were sweet,
like the taste of flights
on your lips as we were about to take off
into your heart.

Fly me back to a time
when I was beautiful enough for you,
smart enough,
silly enough,
good enough.

Crunch me a number
where I was the solution
to all your problems
instead of just a hole
to bury them in.

Take me back to a time
when you dove into my swimming pools
and found treasures;
instead of an empty vessel to hold
your self-hate,
your masochism.

Lay me back down on the beach of a thousand isles,
where the sun shone as bright as my smile.
Waves became walls,
hard and tall
stained from humiliation,
Protecting the sanctuary within
from a burning fire disguised
as desire with no intention to stay.

I watched the skin on my fingertips
sear off
as I tried to cool your rage
that incinerated all the memories of
my sweet elixir
you drank the day we met.

Take me back to a time when
you placed sunflowers
into my hands.
The same hands that caressed
your hurt,
your anxiety,
held you with love,

Drag me back
to before I became the enemy.
Before I was someone to blame,
push around, shame, put on display,
carry the weight of your hurt
that you couldn’t contain.

You pushed it on me.

You broke into my castle,
stole every jewel every crystal
that made up my light.

Why can’t I commit?
Because no one ever stayed.

Why can’t I trust?
Because the last one told me it was my fault, my mistakes.
I wasn’t good enough, smart enough,
too naive, took too much time,
didn’t think enough, react enough,
do the right thing, said the wrong things,
couldn’t commit enough, be enough,
love enough, try hard enough.

I’m fine. I’ll just sit here and hold your hate until
you are ready to take it back.

You probably never will.
But I’d rather hold your hate
in my delicate hands
than look in the mirror
each morning and hate what
I can’t stop.

Don’t worry about me. Just let me rock.


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