No More Dating

Oh dear, second day into NaBloPoMo, and I'm almost about to miss my post! That's thanks to me sitting here ordering all my stock for my new company... and my head is pounding with the gamble of it all... PLEASE SELL!

So, with the remaining half an hour I have left of Day 2, I will post a poem (bonus day!) that I wrote a few weeks ago, but I'm not breaking the rules, because I'm also posting a fresh 30 Days of Thanksgiving thought to coincide with it.

Be warned - single people, you may want to stab me for this. Like with a fork. Repeatedly. In the eye.

I am thankful that I am done with dating.

Dating freaking sucks.

Okay, yeah, in hindsight I can vaguely remember it being remotely fun in some sort of masochistic way, but now that I'm done with dating, I am so relieved. Not that marriage is always a box of chocolates, and the heartbreak it can sometimes cause is worse than any break-up, but at this point in our lives, I am happy, content, confident that I am loved, and so freaking glad I don't have to play the dating game anymore. Here's praying I never will again (aka, Scott is not allowed to die or leave me. And I think he has put the same restrictions on me). While it's fun to get that spark of excitement, that first touch, that first kiss, it's also fun to pack those sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet memories away and be thankful that you won't ever have to wonder again 'Why didn't he call me? OH WHY???'

And now, for the poem. Warning - Explicit Language below, because break-ups deserve the F-word. Please tick the box to prove you are 18 years or older. □ Cheers.*

The Break-Up Box

Your fucking flowers, flimsy fading wilting
slimy stems in moldy chlorophyll-
water. Bend these in half, cram in trash.
Your flannel pearl-snap
shirt, smelling like your unwashed
hair (and okay, so I smelled the smell all the way out
under sheets and against heavy
quilts, my cheek deep in polyester and rayon-cotton blends
in the secret dark.)
Your used-book-shop paperback
brown pages, handwritings, yellow
highlighter, pretentious shit.
Your indie music mix tapes
songs as clues, they were all there,
lyrics always off
center, just fingertips off.

Stop sitting like that, on the carpet,
legs crossed, face in calloused
hands like you’re the crystal
in sharp shards scattered on the bedroom
carpet.







*MAN, I hope someone tried to tick that box.