Even though I cannot see your face
Nor place my fingers upon your skin;
I am here; craving your words, your
Warmth, the small smile in the dark,
So damn sweet
As if still children; we would play on the
Playground, eat unwashed apples, and
Ride our bikes, dangerously…
Need something here to make the poem sing
I am here craving that ping.
Stupid ping.
Which means someone gave/gives
a fuck…Someone loves me, or wants
To fuck; I wanted to tell you…
I had a telehealth psych consult today.
100 up to 150 and so the Zoloft lifts and flies away with a
Little girl trailing…. behind
Goddamn… If I could only get near you.
Press myself into you. I would baby.
Maybe kiss you. That’s kinda
Nice to think but
All I have to offer really are my kisses.
My saturated genius broke/bloat
Brain gone so far past the blood/brain
Barrier. Serves me right
the Paranoia I share.
This is tricky. Picking a scab like a tick
Don’t lose it in your hair…
tomorrow I will hate this poem…
You don’t like it either—–then
fuck you—-omg
Did I say that out loud, about the picking of the scalp
Fuck
How I love u despite the platitudes…
I make u oatmeal, and eggs. The man/child-
in you refuses to eat it. I gain 30
pounds in the face of…
The face of…
Baby. Come. Hold me. In the
Dark night. I am lost.
I am so lost messy unhinged they might call it
The woman who loves you is hurting
Your online woman is hurting.
Photo by Meghan Hessler on Unsplash
Elisabeth Horan
Elisabeth Horan is a poet mother student lover of kind people and animals, homesteading in Vermont with her tolerant partner and two young sons. She writes to survive and survives to write - We are all battling something. Let's support each other. Elisabeth enjoys riding horses and caring for her cats, chickens, goats and children (not necessarily in that order). She teaches at River Valley Community College in New Hampshire.
