this is as good as it gets.
the bags under my eyes have been packed for years and it was time to go even longer before then, but i’m so deeply rooted in this sadness that it’s almost comfortable. i’ve made it livable; posters on the walls. terrariums on the windowsill. these patterns of personal failure become so routine that i could do them in my sleep, and i’m sure i do. through the motions - on tuesdays i have dreams about him. thursdays are for crying his name into the pillow so loud that the neighbors tell me i need to have quieter sex the next morning. wednesdays are for not sleeping at all but i still put on my pajamas and i hide underneath the covers and it’s, well, almost comfortable.
little diamond solitaire.
given to my mother by a man
who is not my father, it sits on
the index finger of my left hand.
it never comes off, it always reminds.
don’t settle, trust your intuition.
never let a man make you feel like
less than a person. if you’re unhappy,
leave, and run fast. take care with
yourself, your choices. don’t get
trapped. don’t turn your back to
corners. don’t be unhappy years
from now; my father gave her a much
nicer ring and two daughters he says
he never really wanted and that was
pretty much it. they’re in the next room
but they’re not in love.