Maybe it’s because I can’t handle being alone
And the men that I find just don’t give enough
Or they are not there enough
It’s either me or them who’s never enough
But I know there’s a word for me
And it is: Hopeless
Maybe it’s because I’ve faked so many orgasms
I might have forgotten what a real one feels like
But I still leave them breathless,
And so tired they can barely move afterwards
But they still have enough energy
To get up and drive home, or just
Make me take them there
Or they sleep on the couch or the floor
Just never next to me.
Maybe it’s because they all know
I’m an easy one to use
Every man knows that
The women who can’t even
Look at themselves in the mirror
Must be good in bed
Because they only care about pleasing others
Maybe it’s because I’ve always hoped too much
To hear someone calling my name
Though none of them ever do.
Some can’t even get their tongues around it,
I try to explain it but no one listens
So when I’m screaming and crying:
“I don’t know what I’m doing
I don’t know who I am”
They just say ‘Baby, come here’
And before I know it
Their tongue is in my mouth
Shutting me up
As if that’s what it will take
To make me whole.
Maybe it’s because I know
I’ll be used until I die
Used for my money or my car
Or my bed or my poems
Or for my tongue or for
What’s between my legs.
They will take and take and keep taking
And when I try to say
“I deserve better than this”
They won’t even know
What I’m talking about.
I guess I wrote this back in 2003 or 2004. Now that I am putting poems online, I am really wishing I had dated these, but maybe I thought they would be timeless, or I thought they would be kept secret in my notebook forever.
When I decided to post a poem tonight, I was thinking of this one, and I swear when I opened my notebook the pages fell open on that particular page.
When I read these words, I can remember the time I wrote this, I remember why and for who. I remember the exact way it felt to be used and taken for granted, and I wonder, deep inside, do I still feel this way about myself? Do I still think that I am hopeless, and not worth real love?
I guess it’s just one of those things I have to figure out about myself, and I’m glad to have a creative outlet in which to do that, still.