Poetry: Bittersweet Fall

blogpoetry

Merry Christmas! My house is finally my own again, as is the computer (mostly). I have tons of poems on my desktop just waiting to be revised, but I’m not sure if I want to publish them. I think I should stop writing such personal poems…

Anyway, I only realised after I wrote this that it kind of turned into Ten Things I Hate About You, but hey, I like that movie. I spent a good deal of time whilst I was writing this trying to find synonyms for the adverb ‘even’, but it’s still not the same as before. :-/ Any critique is very welcome – I’m only just starting out, so I’m looking to improve.

I’ll be reviewing the year and setting some goals for the next one in an upcoming post, so do look out for that!  Also: I got the Spirited Away soundtrack for Christmas, and I am completely in love with The Dragon Boy. Because Haku. And brass.


Bittersweet Fall

well I hate that you can still
make me smile, even though I
say that I’m over you; even though
my eyes never meet yours, you can
still find my hand under the table.

(I say that but you know I don’t mean it –
I never do.)

well I hate that I was drawn to you
like a moth to a lampshade, irrepressibly.
I was never deserving of your love,
I have realised; you were not
looking for these dust-ridden wings of
mine, you were looking for a butterfly to
run away with you to paradise.

(and I am sorry I could not take you there.)

well I hate that I was so taken in
by your dazzling jewels and trinkets;
I, who opposed everything you stood for,
had further to fall than all the rest.

(and my, I did.)

well I hate that you still rule
the day and I am confined to this darkness;
I suppose it is beautiful in its own way
but that just reminds me of how
you described me like I was something good,
something special. I guess
you know now I’m not the moon, or the stars.
I’m nothing.

(how I ache for your light, your warmth.)

well I hate how they look at me with pity,
though they have stooped lower than I.
what makes me worthy of this crime?
I think it was the way that you were too good
even for them: you were invincible –
no one dared touch your golden skin save for me,
and my fingers are still singed.

(I opened this box of evil upon myself;
it was I that did this.)

well I hate that I am still brooding
over your face; however much I
tell myself to stop you just don’t seem
to go away.

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