But I don’t know how

I want to write you this poem,
but I don’t know how.

In the undercurrent
of sticky situations and unfiltered guttural rambling,
I am still that woman.

I am still looking at you from behind the mirror,
still tracing the skin on your body
still wishing I could make it all disappear.

I am still looking at your eyes, still pinching the eyelids back
wondering what you would look like
without those skinbags hogging all the eyespace.

I want to love you more now than I ever have,
but I don’t know how.

I know you irk me, and you constantly say things that I wish you wouldn’t.
You behave in a way I don’t understand
but I’m still here.

We will never be alone this way,
but that’s not really the issue, is it?

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