Only five times each day, I play like my bed frame
is a tweed lounge seat, my shelf is a welcome desk,
you are my friend by choice, and things are like they used to be-
You here to pay attention like you would have better things to do,
if it weren’t for the fact that I am your best.
Behind closed doors, I mime conversation with transparent friend,
all for imagined your strong, silent type observance.
This poem wasn’t supposed to be embarrassing, but I am
selfish enough to call all wound manifestation “healing”,
all coping “processing”, all brokenness “fixing”.
I am something enough to just
want you to listen to me.
But no matter how often I pretend
to talk, I never do discover what, and you never listen, and I’m never heard,
and if it were time to call on your real ears, I would, don’t doubt,
so I’m done! I’m ripping the bandaid off, dropping the crutch,
letting go of my security blanket-
My lie, but once your love.
One thought on “Counterproductivity”
[…] Lydia Rae Bush’s “Alphabet Ravine” blog, “Counterproductivity.“ […]
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