truth is

truth is…

right now i can’t fucking stand myself. i don’t recognize myself, i feel not like a ghost in my own body – this is me and i really can’t stand it.

truth is…

every time i leave your house in the morning i’m disgusted with myself. not shame or embarrassment, just disgust. like i drank curdled milk… and keep drinking it. and i don’t sleep well and i’m a little hungover and the strain in my voice haunts me the whole day.

you’ve stopped being a muse, my words are waiting for something better, more meaningful, less pitied.

truth is…

i used to know my way out of messes like this. like you. i used to believe there was some greater reason for all this. i think now maybe you’re a clue that i need help out of this mess, because the mess inside has always been there, a dirty pile of clothes just waiting to be set on fire. but instead of some hot blaze i know to run from, it’s more a tiny smoldering cherry that i can’t find to stomp out. so everything is smoking and burning down and i’m just standing there doing nothing. smoking too many cigarettes. saying yes over and over and over for some dumb reason.

truth is…

i can’t fucking stand myself right now. i do blame you a little. i mostly just blame me.

 

©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

reprieve

this can never happen again…

i know i am a bad

decision you make when drunk –

my body a momentary reprieve

i must taste as sweet as bourbon in your mouth

the way you seem to crave me and flee me…

in the morning you’ll whisper promises to yourself

this can never happen again

this can never happen again

you swish those words in your mouth like ice cubes melting

my bite marks a hangover etched into your skin

this can never happen again

this can never happen again

 

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved