cringe

6.25.17

it’s not infrequent i cringe

at myself in the mornings

the night before fuzzy like a plastic magnifying glass

i can’t seem to shake you

i can’t seem to hold onto me

long enough, strong enough

to fully break free

in the morning with sobriety pulling back the sleep from my eyes

i cringe at what i see, what i’ve become

and heavy is the weight of it all

so by nightfall

i slip back into you, back into drink

back into the safety of your plastic promises

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

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compliment

 

somehow when he tells me how sexy i am

it doesn’t feel like a compliment

it feels like an explanation

like a justification for why he’s fucking me

for why i’m in his bed this time…

but i swallow his words the way i try to swallow him, that moment

choking against my tonsils

the confusion scraping against my teeth

he mistakes my moaning, my gagging for

acceptance

he doesn’t realize that when i say

oh baby, when he’s saying goddamn woman,

i’m really saying

i think you’re sexy too –

and i don’t mean that as a compliment

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

hangover eyes

You always have hangover sad eyes in the morning

I’m left trying to figure out me and how to respond

Do I feel guilty for providing my body –

another one of your vices?

Do I feel shame you can’t wake with the same glint in your eyes

when the vodka is gone?

when you see me next to you in the morning?

Do I feel embarrassment

you find me sour like the hangover that plagues you all day?

Maybe I could take your sweet nothings you whispered to me while we fucked –

sew them into the lining of my purse

Maybe I could photograph the way your eyes lit up last night –

tint it into sepia for the faded and timeless effect

So when I’m filled with doubt and

my own bitter regret

I can pretend

this was a timeless affair

this was an aftershock for both of us

this was real

distant

you are not always my favorite past-time…

there are those days

when the blue skies stretch endlessly

and i get lost among all the blades of grass outstretched and dancing

the wind carrying me effortlessly from past to present…

if I told you you were just a metaphor and all

the scars carried over from past lovers

was just an analogy for how

i crave my lovers extinct and distant

would you look for your own blade of grass to get lost in

or maybe

you’d try to make my bruises your home

or maybe you’d

just sit back under outstretched blue skies

and mistake my scar-tissued body for

the softness of fresh grass under bare feet

 

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

imaginary

it’s hard not to think of all of this as anything but imaginary

the way you pulled me in so damn close… but never wanted to stay near

the way you inhaled me and took your time sizing me up like i was a feast prepared just for you

the way you tried to convince me as much as yourself there was more of you to offer, somewhere, and you’d find it if that meant i would stay

it’s hard to be anything but sad and confused

the way i’ve waited for you to find me

the way i’ve longed for my body to be etched into your thoughts

the way i’ve been patient and forgiving of all those before you – to make space for you

it’s predictable the way it all disintegrated, like it was only partially real anyways –

the way a lucid dream is both dreamlike and real-life colliding in the night

the way ghosts only haunt those homes they once occupied

the way a seedling can sprout but never fully bloom

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

infuse

(5.27.17)

our bodies are like magnets and when i don’t resist you its because i know i’m powerless against the pull we have towards each other

the way our lips feel pressed against each other

the way we move in unison

the way i infuse you and you invade me….

it’s too much to resist

so i give in and in the moment, it makes sense there’s no way to say no

so each time my body sees yours…

each time our eyes lock on each other and i feel my body aching for you to set it free…

i give in and i’m left wondering…

am i slowly dying or am i slowly coming back to life?

 

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved