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Lady Veryon -> RE: Giving you my Heart - Lady Veryon's Poetry (5/25/2012 13:07:50)
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Ordinary
that's the word for people who don't fall in love;
it's Ordinary.
Ordinary
the people who aren't special, aren't pretty, aren't bright
the people who hide behind masks and numbness
the people who need to rule a false kingdom
yes, love is not for them.
Ordinary
means accepting his proposal
because there's no reason to refuse it
being contented, being provided for
smiling at the babies in the nice, well-painted house
ordinary, ordinary.
That's my life
a human life
my own.
No love for me.
The day will come, the wedding
and the bells will ring, the chorus sing, the bluebirds fly, the bouquet in the air
and you sit in the room, getting ready
and there are people around you and you think;
My God, what am I doing
and they leave you for a moment, "to prepare"
and you sit and it's her name on your lips and you think,
What's missing?
I've got the cake, the guests, the friends, the dress, the flowers and the band
I've got the man, the party, the nice house, and contentedness
what am I missing?
What do I want?
And you realize,
Happy.
You aren't Happy. You aren't in love.
God, shouldn't I be in love?
but no,
not for me, never for me
I'm ordinary. Ordinary.
And you run as fast as the big dress allows, you pin a bow into your hair
you run and run and run for him
contentedness, necessity
a husband and a wife you are
bound by the law you don't respect, traditions you don't answer to.
You leave the ghost of happiness
in the aisle with the flower-petals, as he slips on a ring on your finger, says forever
devotion, he gives it you
you give him your smile, become the breathing trophy
that's the nature of your life.
Afterward, they cluster, your friends and family who believe the lie you made yourself
they say, 'Aren't you lucky?' or 'isn't he handsome?' or 'aren't you two fine?'
and they mean it, and your heart starts to believe the **** you're spewing
because you don't say, 'God, what have I done'; you say, 'Thank you. Yes. Thank you'
like they're the only words at all.
And then from the back--God, why--
it's her, because why wouldn't your best friend be at your wedding?
and she says, 'What a beautiful wedding'
and you say, 'Thank you'
and she says, 'I know you'll be happy'
and you smile
she says, 'Can I have a picture with the groom?
Can I have a picture of the bride and groom?'
You allow it, eyes flitting to a pride-stunned groom
and then her lips part with no sigh, no regret, and the next sentence is:
'Can I have one with the bride?'
And it's her face in your nightmares, her feet on the dancefloor that night
her toast that makes them laugh that night
her car that drives you home; her hands that catches the bouquet:
your wedding is a shambles.
Your wedding is a lie.
But you are not a poison, Knight.
Your honeymoon,
as you wished it were her in your bed
on the nights he buys you chocolates, strews the sheets with flowers
you pretended as he ****ed you it was her face behind his hands, his touch, his words
your hands played with her breasts, her velvet innards
and when he fell asleep you wept for her;
strewn with flowers, full of chocolate:
your honeymoon,
you wept.
your parents visit, sometimes
and they say, 'isn't this a fine house? Oh, you made a fine dinner'
and smile at him like he should get the credit
and you don't say,
Ordinary, Ordinary, never any love for me;
you say;
'Thank you, and aren't I lucky?'
he goes to work, his tie well-tied, his pants ironed, his shirt clean, his lunch packed
and you sit at home and write poetry to the love that you pretend
oh, my God, the wasted perfection of this perfect life on you:
it's always her you want.
But you are not a poison, Knight:
you're the reason I survive.
You still visit, too, and you say,
'isn't this so fine a house! Isn't this so nice a dinner!'
you entertain with stories from the stages where you work
and I picture my fingers in your hair, like before
and swallow back contentment when you leave me to wallow
leave me to wallow
in a perfect life, my love.
Someday I will die, my love
the me I fight so hard for will be buried in the spring with my flowers
with the seeds and the tears and my hopes for the future
that you never wanted
that you never knew was mine to give you:
Someday my heart will truly die.
And you will see nothing, and I will forget how I desire you
you've told me that a thousand times; and so to please you will I go
content with his devotion, broken with his virtue,
bespoke by the ring on my finger
the child that lives in our house.
I will never stop loving you
I do not love in moderation, not now, not then, not ever for you
and you can ask me to, and I can lie, I can commit to that
but I will wither like my mother
for your apathy.
So why, oh why, can't I stop loving you?
Why oh why can I not care?
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