By Jill (jills@wam.umd.edu)
Date: 18 February 1999

Naked


I

You sang yourself a love song,
and said it was for me.
Was I supposed to be ready for you?
Because how open did I look then,
curled up in a ball
in the corner of your room
holding a vodka and 7up
because it tasted like my tears
that I cried when you came near me.
Surprise! It's not all about you.
How open did I really look then, fumbling to hit
you in the face
while you rattled off your list of
reasons you were upset with me.
You said it was a love song,
but while I cowered in the corner,
your goddamned bedsheet over me,
I wished I could have said I knew better.
You were mad because you had
made your bed earlier
and wanted me in it.
One thing I did know, though,
was that the last thing I was going to do,
even in my drunken state,
was show you the love I never felt
and you never deserved
and you wanted so bad,
but not more than you wanted me
to get your clean sheet of the dirty floor.

II

I was so upset
that it wasn't over yet.

III

Ever think that I was lying, acting, crying
my way through our relationship
the way you did?
I took each step up to the El
with an added sense of
determination
that I would have your being
weighing down my conscience
no more.
Feeling crushed, though,
when I looked down
and you
were still there.
The cold New Years Day air only
made me feel worse,
saddened,
that you still lingered.
A sort of bell jar, we had turned into.
When it turned sour, I can't say--
But I didn't want it back

IV

You cried me a river.
I think you wanted me to drown in it.

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