Go, Then

with apologies to everyone
who has shared the milk in my fridge,
and the lists pinned to the outside —

You think it’s easy
because you’ve never had to
tear it out of yourself
even when it didn’t want to show,
didn’t want to shine.
You think it’s all there
just waiting to pour out
well sometimes it’s stuck.
Sometimes it’s thick.
Sometimes it’s gelled
but not on the paper
and not in any way
that makes sense.

Sometimes it’s Claire
and sometimes it’s clear
and sometimes it’s none of the above
and I am still listening,
transcribing,
my own personal Cassandra,
cursed to foretell
but never truly warn.

I keep so many secrets,
and the truest ones never belong to me.

There are other worlds.
There are

always

other worlds.

Sweet dreams, my beloved.
I count you amongst
all my angels,
even those I’ve never known.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Love Poems, On Depression, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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