Stitching Up Old Wounds

So I’ve come to realize
that when a lot of things feel wrong
we go out looking for
what’s wrong with everything else
regardless of how it effects us
and that there are two kinds of people;
those that blame the world
because they cannot control it,
yet think they should
and
those that blame themselves.

Back when I was a kid
after school they’d sent me to
the Father Kelly School of Religion
to learn why I was catholic
or what it meant to be catholic
or why I should be catholic.
I never really understood,
but they’d try to teach us to be
constant of the mind and
accepting of the bible and
abstinent of the body.

They told me that sex was like
giving a piece of yourself to someone
that you could never get back.
Well,
some years later
I remember our first time
and how I didn’t only do it
because of how sexy she is
(that’s not to say that wasn’t part of it),
but because of what they told me sex was.
There was nothing more that I wanted
than to have her hold in her hands
a part of me
that I never want to get back.
A part of me that I could watch her
mold and toss and carry
with such care or so carelessly
and
that makes me ache for her
and shake for her.

So I’m ducking under those covers again
and wondering what to do with my day
that doesn’t involve
responsibilities
and this pot of coffee is wearing thin.
The movies have all been seen.
She’s not picking up the phone and
it’s moments like this that
make you think nothing
will ever be different.

This candle makes the world
sound silent
save everything in her fist
that beats and thumps
like it matters to anyone
and I’m trying to let this headache pass.
And my legs hurt every time they stop moving
and my brain shatters whenever I stand still,
but I remember laying down next to her
trying to keep her from noticing
that my heart’s racing
because she’s so thrilling
to hold until we fall asleep
under that comforter
she got that one Christmas.

I do not
ever
want that to change
again.