January’s Girl


You are pretty: I am intimidated.

You are funny: I am nervous.

You are self-assured: I am stiff.

You are passionate: I am unyielding.


You are getting warmer.

Or, truthfully, I am less cold.

I am opening.

I am a flower and you are the sun

and things long thought broken

knit themselves together in your warmth

while I pull apart and loosen.


I hate you.

I hate what you say, what you do, what you are

and I love, love, love every second of you

as I drink your presence,

your taste, your smell,

surrounding and intoxicating,

overpowering and never ending

and I want you when you’re not here

and I want you gone when you are

and they would say that we stand on the knifes edge

but I know I have fallen

and can only hope you are falling with me.

I am alert, awake, aware

of so much more to come

and filled with dread that it will not find it’s way

and I long to be alone and silent

even as I crave your white noise,

your laughter, your ecstatic cries

that fill my head and I am drowning, drowning, drowning.


The quiet.

The still.

The calm.

The bliss.


The storm.


You are gone by morning.

know why but I rage, I blame you

for not staying, not trying,

for not being forgiving,

for packing in the night and leaving with no light

for me to see your face again,

for giving up or tripping up or messing up

or any way I can turn this onto you

to absolve myself of knowing

that you were gone by morning

but I had been gone all night.


She is pretty: I am hurting.

She is funny: I am heartbroken.

She is self assured: I am still healing.

She is passionate: I am unyielding.


Oh but she is warm, so warm

in a way I like to pretend you never were

even though it is your face I see

when she works her tongue for my pleasure,

even though it is your name I chant

when she is screaming mine

and clutching at me, clawing for me

trying to bring me closer to her,

to fill the gap I keep you in,

to push you out of the space which surrounds us

but I am unyielding.


It is me who leaves this time,

angry at her for things I can’t explain to her,

angry at her for things you did

and for not doing things you did,

for not being you when I needed her to be,

for all the things I can’t be angry at myself for

and angry at her for allowing herself to be wasted.


I am unyielding.

I am stiff and I am nervous

and I am hurting and I am angry

and I am cold and I am unloved.


I am unloving.


But oh, she is pretty and warm

and I am…

I am thinking of you.


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