If only things
had worked out
the way I’d wished they would

We’d be opening gifts and
taking photos in front of
our first Christmas tree

But now I wish you
weren’t here, and instead
I’m planning my exit strategy.

Today’s poetry prompt words were: if only, dinner, and exit strategy. 

_{Photo by Andrew Abbate on Unsplash}

We said it so many times we called it 10%, because it felt like “I love you” was 10% of all we say to each other. Every day, I love you, I love you, I love you, a balm I’ll never grow tired of but, underneath it all, became a noose around your neck. We’ll stick to easy games; no tag, no red rover, no hopscotch, nothing that involves touching or thinking about you. Finger painting, maybe, that’s an activity we can do together now that cuddling and sex are off the table. My best friend has a sex painting. … Read the rest

I should have said goodbye years ago, the first time you wanted to, the second time, the tenth. But I wasn’t the only one saying let’s give it one more chance, I wasn’t the only one holding on. I wake up tired every morning, crying alone in bed, looking at the space you took up and picturing you there welcoming me into your waiting arms. I cry because I am starved for touch. I cry because of you. The line between me handling it and having a breakdown is paper thin. I’ve been holding myself together with scotch tape … Read the rest

Six years is a long time when you’re only 43. I met you in my prime and now my hair is coming in white. That’s probably your fault. I can blame a lot of my pain on you, but nevertheless, I made choices, too. The argument that someone needs to take blame at all is null. Blame is my favorite game to play, and I almost always win, no matter which side I’m on. Here it is plain and simple: I love you. But I am not sure whether I’m in love with you anymore. 

Today’s poetry prompt words were: … Read the rest

43 turns around the sun and I still can’t find myself in the placement of things. We’re all spinning on this same rock, we’re all headed in the same direction straight toward the end. Why should I even care? What difference do I make at all, impossibly small in this universe, and more specifically, in yours? All I get from you are mixed signals and stop signs. This train is derailing, and I just want to find my way home.

Today’s poetry prompt words were: placement, impossibly small, and stop signs.

_{Photo by NASA Hubble Space Telescope on Unsplash}