Tortilla soup ambush

I ambushed you with the soup you
rejected.

You were tired.
Surprised. Overwhelmed. Irritated.

          imposed upon

I tried to be cute and nice. The ideal cliché
girlfriend who brings you
soup when you’re sick.

You pushed up my skirt to see
my panties.

“They’re silk,” you said. But
I’m pretty sure they’re polyester.
I felt like chattel.

We sat in               silence.
Nothing to say beyond small talk.
No mediocre sex to fill it.

I told you I missed you. Justification —
for the presents,
and my presence.

You didn’t say anything back.

What I meant to say
— should have said was
I needed to see you. 

I needed to know
for certain. To know that it’s not
All. In. My head.

We called it a night.
I stood slumped against
the wall in the hallway of your building.

To take a breath. To collect myself.
It was never about the soup;

It was the rejection.

 — 24 March 2014

Advertisements

2 comments

  1. Jamie · · Reply

    Beautiful poem. Reading it makes one feel the anguish you were suffering; but also makes one admire the structure and beauty and words of the poem itself.

    1. Thanks, Mom. I adapted it from a journal entry.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: