I don’t think you’re ready
for all I bring to the table
and the days when I show up
empty handed, bloodied knees,
with nothing more than
the broken parts of me.
The leftovers don’t always expire
when they are living, breathing
wounds that never heal.
I will serve those so many fucking times,
you will be stuffed full
and sick of trying to chew up
the tantrums, the overly dramatic
parts of me that never stop kicking.
Then the day will come
when you just refuse to swallow
the giving up of me,
the stubborn girl who lives here
sometimes doesn’t give in,
until you do first
and I can say it’s all your fault.
Then I’ll talk about how you left
the table before me
and I never got the chance
to serve you every course,
so you don’t know me at all.
I’ll say I was strong
and I’ll call you the weak one
for pushing your chair away
and leaving me
to feast on my wounds alone.
I’ll say, goddamnit…
you were supposed to be
I’ll say, you were supposed to be
the one person who made it all go away.
Weren’t you supposed to fix me?
Wasn’t your Love supposed to be
The love that healed all these wounds
just by staying and holding my hand.
That’s what I’ll say.
Because I haven’t learned
the hard way yet
that it’s me who’s supposed to save me.
Maybe I’ll never learn that.
Maybe I’m scared to learn that.
Maybe I’m scared to fail at that.
Maybe I’m scared you will fail at that.
Maybe I’m just scared
to let someone love me.
So I’ll push you away
until you don’t anymore.
Because that’s what I know.
Change has always been hard
for me to serve at any table.
And so I light a candle
and eat alone.