I Think Of You


I think of you
when I don’t want to
when I don’t expect to
and even if the memories twinge instead of burn 
they still take up space I don’t want to give them
and I don’t understand why you still have safe passage…
who gave you the key? I grabbed if from you with such force
my palm still has the imprint.
They aren’t pleasant memories, 
no gentle nostalgia here,
no remember when black and white movie reminiscences,
just flash before your eyes heartaches
and then they’re gone like steam
 leaving rust stains of reproach and self disgust behind.
I think of you
when I don’t want to 
when I don’t expect to
and my throat closes tight 
afraid still 
even after all this time
to let caution go and scream what you really were to the world.
And the damage done by the silent duels I constantly lost
will never heal.
like a withered limb they hang from me
swaying against me as I walk,
a thorn sharp reminder of how short I fell.
When you don’t know where to aim
when you are jumping in the dark
how do you hit the mark?
When the rules of the game shift without warning
and the queen topples not only over
but into an abandoned mineshaft
how does she stand strong against that?
Now I am afraid of games and conversations
and wants.
Now I am too bright and shallow, 
cautious to never speak anything that might pull me under
like a bright fishing lure
the barbs are always so pretty…
I think of you.
I don’t want to.
I don’t want to.



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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5 Responses to I Think Of You

  1. Reblogged this on Barrow Blogs: and commented:
    Love this poem

  2. I can relate to this in an immense level, right now. Great Poem! xx

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