dreams
I
you don’t seem enthralled by anything I can offer you and it makes me feel a bit desperate. you don’t appear to want my thoughts or my knowledge or my labour, and you still seem to want my company, and it leaves me adrift. i want to be loved, i should get better at loving, if it’s worth doing why not now? i neglect many a text or a call. but i want yours, i am grasping. and in my dreams we keep dissecting each other, flesh and sinew, and you peel back my skin to reveal the creature of weak supplication i have always contained. and I try to entertain you before you leave. and you turn away in disgust.
II
you hate me, you hate me so much. we get into the same elevator, and for some reason there is a dining table set out within, and immediately you try to push past me to leave. but I jam myself in the doors, beg you to stay. i bought you a postcard the other day with orange poppies on it. i don’t know your mailing address anymore.
III
I am carrying your child. and though I grew up with the notion that such an unplanned creation was unworthy of my life, fit only to be discarded, i cherish this. i am met everywhere with shock and horror and embarassment, but I feel a sense of wholeness. It is obvious that I would carry her to term. no part of me wants her to go.