Off my back

This is strange:
Listening to your voice coming from the other room.
Clear as day,
As if you were here,
With me,
In this house,
And I was eavesdropping on your conversation.

Normal conversations,
With your mother
(Of course)
About laundry, dishes, cooking,
and when you were getting home at night.

"6pm, mother. As soon as I get off work."

What a good boy.

I am frozen.
Petrified, from head to toe,
The only thing I can do is
taptaptap
My frantic heartbeats on to this screen
And pass it off as 'poetry'.

This, however, isn't poetry.

It's the splatter of my vomit,
Bits and pieces of words, thoughts, pleas,
Burning a blazing trail up my throat
Leaving behind acrid tasting treadmarks.

I can try,
But I will never be able to turn
The sweet, rotten-peach sound of your voice into verse,
Or capture your dripping, slime-words of ignorance
In my paper jar.

But that's okay.

Because what I know now is that forgiving someone,
Isn't the same as being a doormat.
Being happy for someone,
Isn't the same as losing yourself.

I will shut my eyes,
Stuff my ears,
Plug my nose,
Close my mouth,
Cover my self in bubblewrap,
And smile at you with vomit dribbling down my chin.

:)