Cement Blocks

I don’t know why I still love you.
Honestly, the amount of hours, of me
trying to figure it all out
is tip-toeing
the line of pathetic.

And even while writing the words,
I still love you,
my heart calls for protection,
suggesting to my mind
that in fact—
I am not in love.

You’re a habit, a friend, a fuck-buddy
when we weren’t technically
titled
In a relationship.

No, you were my first love
so it’s just taking a while to
ease into
not thinking about you
every
single
day.

That wondrously,
horrible seventeen months,
I am grateful for.
But my body is
now exhausted and dehydrated.
When I attempt to cry,
nothing but dust particles and spider webs
appear
because all my tears
were spent on you.

Of course we would never
have worked
because the idea of me
was far more captivating to you—

You’re so smart,
I can’t believe I’m dating a writer.
I love that you play the piano and drums.
You can drink beer and take shots with the guys.
You’re the prettiest girl I’ve been with.

My qualities—
you listed on
your fingers
almost like
you were
checking
if I
made the cut
that day.

Each act of me trying to live life,
whether it was going out until sunrise
or
needing time alone to write
was met by
slanted tones
embodied by hand-crafted
cement blocks.
Blocks so heavy you had to drag them
across the hard-wood floors—
scarring them forever,
with deep, reddened lines that
resembled Staff infection.

These blocks were swathed
in kisses and hugs,
disguises to match the punishment
you deemed fit
for what you felt
I did wrong.

The fractures created by your words
led me to actually begin to
question even everyday decisions.
I started chewing
watermelon gum because you
liked the taste.
(Cinnamon is my favorite.)
God, that makes me angry now.

Naïve, foolish, inexperienced—
all are words that spring to mind
when I think of me then.

Oh how I despise
how I let you guilt me into
acting more like a 1950s
housewife—
dinner on the table when you
got home from work,
(I don’t even like to cook.)
My actual paid job, hobbies and creative aspirations put aside
so you could
fill me in
on your day.
I adore children
as much
as the next person
but there are only so many
topics of discussion (boogers,
diapers, playing pretend firemen)
that come from working at a
preschool.

A master I was at nodding
in compliance and
feigning interest,
in the hopes you would
take a deeper interest in me.

Because these annoying feelings of love
are still lingering in my veins
I wonder,
was the agony of this relationship like childbirth?
Have I just forgotten how excruciatingly
painful it was
and now I’m ready to try again?

To stop missing you
I have others remind me
just why I ended it,
five times.
Obviously, it’s been damn near
impossible
for me to leave you.

But talking to you on the phone
brings back memories like bullets shooting
out of a semi-automatic rifle.

I see my hands tied behind my back.
Thanks to you these blocks
were nestled carefully within
my shoulder blades and
on my lower spine.

As you stood on these self-made shackles,
your own narcissistic voice drowned out my cries.
The mirror across the room
always could woo you
into forgetting
I was still being disciplined
underneath your stance.

While my ribs began to birth hairline cracks
that can’t be seen with the naked eye,
you would walk away—
suddenly preoccupied
with the newest vagina in the corner.

Only x-rays could delve deeper and see
where the injuries began.
Scabbed rashes in block formations
still hide underneath my blouse
because you still know
how to get to me—

And I hate it.
So I tear off my clothes
exposing what you’ve done—
My nakedness comforted
only by the freeness of the
wind against my body.

I don’t know
what else to do
anymore—
so I
shrug my shoulders
and sit,
still naked
on the concrete sidewalk—
the pads of my fingertips
lightly caress the cold ground.
It feels
familiar.

What hurts worse
than every
condescending,
arrogant
judgmental,
asshole-like
phrase—
was that
this time
you left me,
and I just let you
get away with it all.