Women are like teabags; you never know how strong they are until they're put in hot water." - ER


eleanor would be disappointed

I could write a book of a thousand things that would stop your heart
but I'd never let you read it.
I could show you the lovemarks of a thousand men on my skin
but that still won't make you give me one.
I'm formally a ward of fate, pulled fancifully:
a wooden puppet – so set me on fire.
I'll wither and smolder under your sharp heat and
never
be reborn from the ashes of my over-picked, wrinkled petals.
I don't know if I'm a teabag or just hot water,
if I'm so pliable, limp –
I don't know if the inability to cry about it anymore makes me incorrigibly brazen,
or miserably defeated – drought-struck.
I can't write so well anymore,
can't do anything so well anymore.

I told you I didn't look anyone in the eye anymore.
You glazed over it and got back to you but
I've never told anyone that before.
You just told me "you have beautiful eyes", and thought that made it better.




Poetry by ggardens
Read 268 times
Written on 2011-04-21 at 22:09

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
This poem covers a lot of ground beautifully. I enjoyed it a great deal. Your lover never will know who you are, and neither will you.
2011-04-24


countryfog
I take exception to "can't write so well anymore" . . . had I not known who wrote this I would have thought Sexton or Plath. As with them, it takes courage to write as you do.
2011-04-22