Do Not Love A Girl Like Me

And you, with lips that bleed with the sacrifice of your heart.

I beg of you not to love me.

Find a girl whose contours do not snag beneath your touch, who has not traded her tears for thorns, her skin for armour.

A girl who does not forgo sleep to map escape routes on the back of her eyelids, but instead makes her home below the shelter of your collarbones.

Make sure her constitution has been stitched together with straight lines and even spaces; that she has not been woven remiss with paradox and inconsistency, both the hurricane and the shelter, the illness and the cure.

A girl who does not bleed alcohol and exist in metaphor.

Whose stories can be read in journals impressed with seaside daisies and late summer memories, not scrawled in jagged scars upon her skin.

A girl whose worth is not rich in the currency of shame and apologies.

Who does not wrap her fragile shell in a bandage of words, hoping to hold intact chalky bones that threaten to crumble away with sadness.

Who says she is fine.

She is not fine.

Do not believe the poets; the ones who tell you there is beauty in brokenness, who swathe ugly truths in pretty words and label it art, like virtuosity will ever be enough to soak the bloodstains off the floor.

There is no beauty in brokenness.

Only broken inhabits brokenness.

Do not love a girl like me, a girl too inept to be trusted with such precarious birth.

Who does not understand love when it has only been spelled as goodbye.

Who knows the taste of trust only as kisses from a razor-blade tongue.

Who does not know how to exist without one foot stretched out, holding the door ajar.

Do not love a girl like me who drapes herself in garments of tough pretence to belie the vulnerability beneath.

A girl like me, whose untamed heart betrays me with its wild abandon at the wanting in your eyes; who does not know how to love in half-measure but only with the magnitude of the entire universe that gathers within my flesh.

No, do not love a girl like me.

Find a girl who is sure-footed and able.

For I,

I am too familiar with my own heart; the delicate glass of which it is fashioned, so susceptible to causing us both to bleed should it shatter beneath the weight of your fingers.

What I mean to say is, I am so afraid of love,

I would rather not love at all.

~ ©️ Kathy Parker 2018 ~

Affliction Vs Apathy

You always preferred a clean kitchen.

I watch out the window as day slips

on her black dress and begins to flirt

with the evening sky.

I wonder what you’d think now, if you

were here to see the way bottles line

every surface.

I have placed them in straight lines, at

least, and I know you would appreciate

the juxtaposition. You always did care

for order. For a standard of perfection I

could only ever trail behind.

There is quite a lot of them now.

135, to be exact.

One for every day since we last spoke.

One for every day since you ceased to

exist to me.

I use the corks to plug the bullet holes in

my heart you left to bleed; you’d think I’d

have known better than to allow a fully-

automatic weapon like you into my house.

But slow learning runs inside my veins; the

legacy of women who have come before

me still trying to prove they are worthy of

the love of a father who only ever wanted

a son.

The last yellow light settles in the kitchen.

The bottles capture it, throw patterns on

the wall.

One day I will have enough glass

to crush these bottles into sand and I will

fill my house with ashes of you; squelch

it between my toes and imagine myself

on the holiday we always planned but

never took.

The one we said we’d spend days on

the beach absorbing alcohol and sun,

and nights we’d spend fucking against

walls, against doors, against the apathy

we swore would never be found beneath

the layers of our skin.

I wish it had been apathy that had caused

our destruction; a silent cancer that would

have sucked the marrow from our bones

until we’d have had nothing left to care

with, and could have just faded inside our

voiceless grief. Instead our graves lie

scrawled with the blood of the rampage

that had lain dormant inside you for long

enough, buried beneath the ocean of

sorries that never quite reached your

eyes. You always held rage inside you;

a force of nature that could never be

anticipated or predicted.

You always told me it was my fault.

I started to believe you.

Bottle 136 rests in my hand.

I let it fall to the ground and watch it shatter.

The glass is not soft like sand, but pointed

and jagged, like the eggshells that would

cut my feet whenever you were near.

I press my toes into the glass.

Blood trickles onto the floorboards and

I am relieved to find I am alive, after all.

Perhaps affliction is better than apathy.

I tell the walls you are dead to me.

They still whisper your name.

~ ©️ Kathy Parker ~

The Unravelled Heart, a profoundly true reflection on trauma, abuse, love, loss and healing, now available worldwide on Amazon http://amzn.to/2BIvFhp