Lemons At 3am
Poetry is supposed to make you feel naked.
like that time you took your bra and underwear off for him
stop writing fluff Deborah
write about how he cheated on you.
It’s no good if you don’t feel like you’re standing in the middle of a crowd
wearing nothing but your skin
write about how he fucked you up.
how you felt like you weren’t enough for months
how you cried yourself to sleep night after night, you didn’t care
that your roommate had an 8am and stayed up with you till 3
Write about how you didn’t care that it wasn’t his first time
how he didn’t remember the date when you asked him.
He said that detail wasn’t important, that he remembered everything else
what you were wearing, what it felt like, what you said
but he couldn’t remember the date.
Write about how he treated you like shit but you thought you had to love him
because he was your first
you have to write about this Deborah
your eyes have become cracking levees weaken by the flood
and they are just so damn tired.
Poetry is supposed to make you feel better
naked, like your skin against his,
these are your memories Deborah, no matter how painful
you cant let him take that from you.
He told you that he wasn’t good enough for you
unworthy of your love, he put you on a pedestal and you sat there
willingly, only to see it crumble beneath you.
Write about how you welcomed him into your walls
into places that no one ever touched before
how you ignored the God inside you, pushed it aside,
so you didn’t feel like shit every time you had sex with him
stop focusing on how bitter the lemons you have been handed are
and realize that you are capable of producing the honey
sweet enough to make this
I’ve been drowning myself in a bed of salty regret
but you were never a mistake
I chose your bed over mine at 3am.