Monday, November 30, 2015

Poem Series: Regrets

Liz Fink-Davenport

I have regrets. Yes. Of how I loved you. Of how I did all the things I promised myself I would not do immediately after the promise is said. I lied to me. I dismantled me and showed you the pieces like a child with pride; an offering of scribbles and a cracked clay thumb pot and a seed sprouting in a styrofoam cup.
I broke my ribs and then rebuilt my chest so that you had room to crawl in.
I stopped all time and halted the world on its axis and boxed up the winds and shushed down the universe so that only your siren song voice was heard.
I rearranged my mess so it was less messy for you to have to look at.
I created nonstop earthquake dreams of you. I swallowed the ocean and ate the desert and lied and said I wanted more.

I have regrets. Of how I loved you. My heart beats no blood now. Air. Only air. My fingertips just graze the world, never plunging wrist deep again. My skin stands up and walks around and says hello to the greeter at the grocery and makes life roll forward. "Thank you, my day is well." No. Makes time roll forward. Life stopped. My chest rises and falls. Like it should. I fulfill my requirements. With no light. None. You turned off the headlight in a mine. Miles deep. You are not a good person.

I have regrets. But I don't regret my enthusiasm. I don't regret my joy. I don't regret how I freaking cannon balled into it. I don't regret my anxious fear that turned in to warmed honey. I don't regret how fearless I was. I don't regret my lessons learned. My heart. In pieces. Swept up with a small broom and a dust pan. It will get glue sticked back together. Someday.

Until then. I have regrets. I do. I have my heart to find blood for. I have my skin to keep walking. I have you. Imprinted. Damn. You. Imprinted. I have regrets. I want you to regret someone else. Please. Regret them until you want to shake them out like crumbs. I want you to regret. Have regrets. Am I one?

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