A Lifetime Fighter


It’s funny how inaccurate
first impressions can be,
but yours still makes me
laugh to this very day.

No, waving your arms about
won’t stop me from bringing
it up. Was the ground really
that interesting compared to
my face? I wanted so badly for
you to look me in the eyes, but
you were hellbent on looking
at everything but a face that
didn’t trust you at first. At first.

But oh, how things change
when you seep through the
tough skin of someone who
isn’t sure whether to let you in.

How things change when you
grow with them and congratulate
each other for blooming after
such a barren harvest. And that
is when we knew there was so
much more to our story. It had
barely begun writing itself.
Yesterday, I sat on a street bench.
I bought a book earlier that day
composed entirely of love poems.
I flicked my thumb inside it
and slit it on a paper’s edge
until a red thread was pulled
from my flesh. I didn’t know
what to say as I sucked the sting.

Maybe I deserved it, I thought.
I bite the softest part of the lip.
I offer trembling hands, ravenous eyes,
pulsing, hot belly. Sometimes I come
unsheathed, dress and panties
tossed in desperate heaps.
I open wide. I try to look dangerous,
but I get angry when someone says
that they love me.
This kind of poetry
never sat well with me.

Then I bled. I bled tiny beads
strung down the crevice in my finger.
I bled for the ink, dashed
in lowercase letters, bound in my hand.
I bled because I couldn’t believe.
I was too wild.
I was too bitter.
I buy love poems and say I hate them,
but my eyes burn like wounds
when I lose myself
in their folds
and close them
as if in prayer.
Cassie PayneConfessional Anthologies
(via aestheticintrovert)