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Dry
This is me welding my heart shut to you, so you can no longer be the oxygen to my blood. I spit into the dust of your words. I reclutter the space I made for you. Draw a line in the sand between you and I. Turn my back and walk away, although you are long gone or never there to begin with.
My frustration - the wind's burden. I was not a 'fuck yes' or a 'fuck no' to you. I was possibility. A 'fuck maybe'. And maybe I was unfair to you, but I was a toy to you. A play thing to drop and discard, and pick up again, tear apart, and reassemble.
'Loving nothing,' I said once, but you burnt yourself into that old furnace. Lit up my cobwebs and junk and unpacked baggage. But you were not the flame, though you kindly reignited it. You were dry. You were the kindling.
© Eva Irvine
My frustration - the wind's burden. I was not a 'fuck yes' or a 'fuck no' to you. I was possibility. A 'fuck maybe'. And maybe I was unfair to you, but I was a toy to you. A play thing to drop and discard, and pick up again, tear apart, and reassemble.
'Loving nothing,' I said once, but you burnt yourself into that old furnace. Lit up my cobwebs and junk and unpacked baggage. But you were not the flame, though you kindly reignited it. You were dry. You were the kindling.
© Eva Irvine
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