Decompress

My way of decompressing between projects is to go through my old Word docs. I'm usually pleasantly surprised by the things I find, and that surprise urges me to get to work on whatever is next in the queue (probably my post-apoc DISCOVERY).

But as I was wandering from doc to doc today, I found a poem I'd forgotten. I wrote in during my slam-poetry kick (that lasted all of about a month), but it's actually pretty decent. So I shall share it with all ya'll while I continue decompressing on this lazy Wednesday afternoon. Cheers.

Second place is the first loser.

But in your eyes, second place feels like first.

In your eyes, second place feels like the ribbon broke on my stomach,

And the crowd cheers my name

Instead of hers.

But the way you say her name echoes with the voices of a thousand cheering fans,

Reminiscent of a time so precious I could never, ever, ever begin to touch it.

Memories so strong and adrenaline-filled and sweat-drenched that I can’t even see their blur as they rush by.

You look at me.

And I don’t care.

Maybe you will say my name like that one day.

Maybe you will lay awake hoping to hear my feet pound towards you,

Hoping to feel my breath beat on your face.

I don’t care that I can see her in your eyes,

That I can feel the years of desiring her on your skin,

And the way you hold me, run your fingers over my goosebumps and soothe away my strain,

I know you touched her even sweeter.

But I don’t care.

Why don’t I care?

I know you talk to her, still.

I know you laugh at what she says, and she laughs at what you say, and the line connects you, connected you, will always connect you.

I nod and smile and wave it off.

Because in your eyes, second place feels like first.

In your eyes, as long as I’m in your eyes,

I can run, and pretend the weight in my stomach is really the weight of the ribbon breaking on me.

Second is all I deserve.

I wasn’t fast enough. Simple as that.

Why don’t I like myself?

Why do I expect to win first place with you when I’m not even first in my own race?

I surrendered myself to a lifetime of dedicated imagining,

Like all I would ever get is pretending that the look on your face was put there by me.

Like I wasn’t worthy to put that look on someone’s face.

Like I could love her out of you.

But I won’t.

I can’t.

I cannot love you enough.

Do I hear me?

I can’t make myself enough!

And this life of falling asleep on dreams,

Of pictures I wish were of me,

Isn’t enough.

Because I deserve to win my own race.

I deserve to feel the ribbon break on me,

To hear someone say my name like the voices of a thousand screaming fans,

To feel him hold me like he’s holding adrenaline in his arms,

And to see only me looking back from his eyes.