Waiting For You To Come Home
This morning
Charlie told me
that you’ve been feeding ears,
calling me manipulative
behind my back,
and I thought about
how a month or so ago,
I gifted you
a painting of Mt. Simon
because you were feeling homesick,
and you said you liked it,
but I guess, with the information I know now,
maybe, you were lying.
I’ve thought about moving out,
actions speak loud,
bigger than me.
It’s just hard to believe.
Especially when the trees
used to be so green.
But now their leaves
pile at my bare feet.
You lost
friend after friend,
person after person,
draining emotion.
I catch an early morning flight
to escape
but who am I kidding?
Who should I really be running from?
You, or the version of me that lets herself get used?
Charlie watches me cry
with pity in her eyes
and I fall apart again
and again
and one more time.
So, if you want to spread
whatever you need to spread
to make this taste better,
go ahead.
I’ll do my best
to remember
that I tried to help you get better
and that I’m not a bitch.
When I stop to look around,
I realize I’ve built a house
for someone who was looking
for an apartment.
I thought these four walls
made up a room
but it turns out
they’re just your sheets of dirty laundry
hung up to air out.
You run to the one
who you want to make your wife
and I’ll always be the girl
you lied to,
waiting for you to come home.
I call my mom
day after day,
searing my pain,
praying for change,
feeling so strange,
sick in the stomach.
Will falling in love always be this way?
I’m embarrassed to say
that’s how I used to feel about you,
or at least, I thought,
now I’m not so sure,
I’m getting kind of bored,
put me in the morgue,
I said my stomach’s sore,
stop keeping score,
I’m just a chore
you check off a list
of things to do
but you can’t commit to.
Final goodbyes,
I pack up my life,
I give up on trying,
knife after knife,
one last cry,
Charlie makes me feel alright,
and you’ll never get to know
what would’ve been at the door
waiting for you to come home.