I remember you

I remember you

and what it was
you were selling.
I remember the days,

all 365 of them,

starting out plain,
ending in space,
ending with blood
and surrealism

and the faint tang of self-disappointment.

I remember the gut churning,
and the panic inducing,
and all the hate,

all the hate,

all the ways I couldn’t
peel out of myself
fast enough to please me.

God, I wish I could just

lose the last twenty years

and change just a touch,
just a little,
here and there.

Not much.

Not much,
but I wish I hadn’t
wasted so much time

wishing I were you,

because let’s face it,
how would it have been better,

really?

If I’d slipped away earlier
and harnessed all that power for good,
instead of letting it drip away

into the peaches

and the cigarette ends

and the corner desks

and the briefcases

where we hid the paper
and the test tubes
they were never supposed to find,

if maybe I had managed
to kiss a little harder
and hold on a little tighter

instead of let the malt

carry me away from myself

maybe

just maybe

I would have an easier time with pride.

Maybe.

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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.
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2 Responses to I remember you

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    It’s a gift reading your words, even though they’re hard on me. They cut my legs out and I fall, but it’s delicious getting up. And knowing that someone somewhere feels deeply, too.

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