From the other side.


Fingers don’t want to hold the pen,

hands don’t want to cradle

the mustard

hardcover remnant

of my sweet dead aunt’s

unfulfilled poetic achievements,

so I stand still.


Hands and fingers can’t write

while muscles are too afraid

of the truth they bring,

still resisting and trembling

over eager keys

like a virgin sacrifice

to technology,

I imagine they aren’t my fingers

writing the words

I was too afraid to say,

but said. Said aloud. Said anyway.


Said that I loved him.

That I was impressed by his resolve.

That I forgave him.

(My anger a caged tiger

set free upon two paths,

choosing freedom

over revenge.)


Said that I wronged

in desperation

to right the wrongs

done to me

by controlling him.

Said that I was obsessed,

ill at ease,

enabling at best

and disabling at worst.


Said that passion is unrealistic

when a shotgun shell impostor

is all remaining at present

and every possible future

is infested

with shadows of the past.


What I didn’t say,

is that I was never myself.

Never for all of those years.

He was a black hole

eternally stretching my limbs

upon the event horizon.


Creativity abandoned,

friends forgotten,

willpower a vapor

escaping through ever-growing fractures

as I gave him all of me

ignoring that “all of me”

was filled with dusty nothing.



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

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