The Joke Goes Like This: Local Aromantic Walks Into A Lovers Support Group
heads turn as it walks through the door and stops halfway across the room, submitting like a puzzle piece destined to fall into the wrong picture. a perfect fit.
Lovers Anonymous
my name is x. this is day 1.
i don't know if i have the right to use your vocabulary.
i've been carved out of words that are blunt and unpleasant.
truth is that parting
is by far not the bitterest thing
that has dared to sit on my tongue.
how could it be? when my broken hands
have held the sodding remains of
what used to be everyone's
year after year, my palms weigh me down
when i'm sad and they sit heavy on my chest
like rulebooks to a game that i was never invited to.
truth is that there are no seats left at the table for faces
who can't look people in the eyes anymore.
Lovers Anonymous. this rehab is a different kind of awkward
the chairs screech closer as everyone melts into each other
talking about growing pains and withdrawal symptoms.
and i just stand over it all, looming,
knees knocking against each other until
they're giving way to nothing
never bruising, never having
something to prove the hurt.
there's a truth that sits and guards the inner seams of this body,
never letting wounds rise to the surface.
truth is that all this while,
my bleeding does not make it to a display
there are no witnesses, no admirers.
my hemorrhages will always be
too internal and too inadequate
to ever leave a stain on the world.
at Lovers Anonymous, they've made a museum for heartbreaks.
i've been looming over the entrance,
knees giving way, rulebook sitting on my chest,
just trying to put my damned hands and everyone's sodding remains on display.
no witnesses, no admirers.
truth is that love is just not enough
to contain every wound that i give myself
to have a voice in front of you.
love will never be enough.
truth is that you don't know me
so you don't know that parting will
never be the bitterest thing to sit on my tongue.
i don't feel the need to wash it down every time it happens.
i wish you knew me. i wish you saw me, looming.
i wish that love was enough to
reach for a chair at the table at Lovers Anonymous, i wish
that just love was enough for my blood to spill over,
so that there would be something to show you.
truth is that this is a table full of heartbroken, tunnel-visioned love addicts—
and their misery will always spit on my sickness.
sometimes i think nobody but me came into this world alone.
that's bitter. i can't wash it down.
truth is, i wish that love was a word that i was allowed to use in exile. it doesn't work like that.
i was carved out of words that are blunt and unpleasant.
made to haunt your vocabulary.
my name is x. i am not a lover. this is the rest of my life.