Dull Edges

You’re asking me what I want for dinner
and I’m telling you how I never feel like I’m good enough

You’re handing me a paper from the doctor
and I’m handing you the poems I wrote when I was twenty-one and believed I was unworthy of love

You’re asking me to pass the hot sauce
and I’m almost laughing at the white knuckle grip I have on the bottle so it doesn’t drop from my clumsy hands, and you notice yet, another flaw

You’re trying to do the mundane things and I’m pouring out dull edges of truth that cut like thorns in my side

I can’t keep pretending like everything’s okay

The things I’ve done are mostly sad
The movies that play behind closed eyes often sting
This life has made its home in my bones
and I can hear the floors creak every time I rise

This entry was posted in Poetry, This Is Me and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

13 Responses to Dull Edges

  1. utahan15 says:

    nothings ok that s for sure

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Brad Osborne says:

    Powerful! Emotional! This is wonderfully written, my friend! It reminds us that being near to someone and being dear to someone are two different things. I applaud the open honesty!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. CARAMEL says:

    ❤ powerful, raw, honest ❤

    Liked by 1 person

  4. The V Pub says:

    There’s a silent desperation intertwined in your poem. Melancholy, yet beautiful.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. aguycalledbloke says:

    Wonderfully and yet woefully expressed Madam K. It’s a poem that you want to like but feel like to do so is an invasion of the soul, but a story that l feel many have heard, seen and felt first hand when troubles afar are not so distant. Thinking of you and sending hugs my friend.

    Liked by 1 person

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