I Needed You in Me. {poetry}

{Photo credit: Jen Keough}


(What to do when your soul feels raped? Let time pass.)

I believe in probability, not fate.
I scoff at long-lasting affection.
I have no frame of reference
for the conventional,
I struggle between settling for status quo lifestyle
and following the unknown.

When my cynical, fractured,
flawed soul met another,
I threw caution to the wind.
I let my guard down.
Instead of just opening my legs,
I opened my heart.
I didn’t just fall, I felt.

Pressed up against the wall,
neck jerking with my hair in his grasp,
rain blowing in through the window,
breeze on our naked bodies.
Music. His heartbeat.
Fire. Submission. Release.

You. Me.
Not us.
Never us.

You were Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,
with the duplicity and duality
of forbidden fruit.
I made my bed our lair.
You, gifted bait-and-switch-master,
made it the Garden of Eden.
You, the serpent, charmed me to eat
from the tree of knowledge
of good and evil.
The deal with the devil
was co-signed with my body,
paid for with my heart,
and forever indebted with my soul.

Your narcissism made me irrelevant by design.
I confused wishful thinking
for a kindred spirit of divine intervention.
Perfectly pathological perception
and reality became one.
Inevitably I became dope-sick
from my addiction to you.
The first shot was free,
but my soul would forever owe.

When I could no longer feed my addiction,
I withdrew.
My heart raced with reckless abandon
and my bones unabashedly ached.
Panic presided and everything was a trigger.
I craved and used you again and again,
simultaneously tortured and enthralled.
I was as addicted to the ritual as I was to you.
I needed it.
I needed you in me.

You, my torrid storm.
Me, without a mast.
Not us.
Never us.

Brought to my knees,
I braved the storm and did not drown because,
you see, the thing about storms is,
they too shall pass.

Storms electrocute and electrify.
Storms leave carnage, but wash it away,
allowing for a cleansing catharsis.
Storms leave you breathless
and awaken the soul.
Storms are the counterculture of weather,
and the motivation for change.
Storms water the Tree of Life,
allowing for personal growth.

You, lightning.
Me, thunder.
Not us.
Never us.


AmyBlanaru03Amy Blanaru is a left-leaning Celtic Gypsy based in Boston. She works in addiction treatment and likes her pasta al dente. You can find her on Facebook.


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