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rehashing old wounds, creating new ones

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Bruno Major - We Were Never Really Friends all those awful cold and dreary days in Delhi i am stubborn with nicotine and you, with other things. now with company who knows to heat up soup and wash the dishes and no longer minds waiting and doesn't flinch at my approach when in cafes ordering drinks or wondering what to order off the lousy menus and you follow me all over West Delhi heels and all and you see parts of me that no one has yet seen and the parts that have grown prettier over the sorry years and i cried to you as many times as i do  to salula and all the other loves of my life and went drinking so many wonderful times. was it a crime? to fall in love with Delhi now that i had good company all the while  thinking you had merely learned to become  a better friend to me a facade as painful as betrayal because in the end, i am left to pay the responsibility of what all these things did harbouring quiet feelings that i never asked for and never wanted to know holdin...
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how awful it is to be lonely in Vietnam

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  less - olivia rodrigo 5-hour car ride to Sapa  wish you were at the driver's seat  then I would talk about everything and anything and you would know not to disagree  mountains tall they remind me of you  landscape so pretty  they make me feel so blue  wish we could laugh about my sorry cotton attire sink into the lovely bed  sheets and duvet all haywire  then I put on very pretty things  no admirer close to you  whether in Titop Island  or the busy old quarter  all my hands know to do  are call you  and then a very exhausting day follows me  lurking in all the hollow stones of Mua Cave jumping at me from murky Waters  wallowed in despair all the way home  and in the sorry hotel balcony  hands do what they know best  but only silence greets me  nothing as excruciating  as waiting 10 long hours  and when I get you  my composure expires and you tell me we might run awa...
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when in need, the fourth call goes through

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Misty May, busiest bee yet,  quickest to pick up a sorry call wish you could see Vietnam though you might prefer other company I would've liked yours cried in the corner of my hotel balcony  hanoi golden holiday  old quarter  golden is your voice  holiday is the silence as i sob you allowing me to thanking me for calling you up it is still true that you are perhaps  the only man I'll ever love what does it matter without  good company  french quarter and the bustling night market pho on the street side  banh mi for breakfast  and all the coffee this world will ever need you tell me to hold on just one more tough day and then easy will come the rest November so tender finding me at my roughest sincerely sincerely with sniffles and awful allergies sobbing girl poet; sobbiest of the century
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when mother needs mother

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 when i was 5 needed a rundown of alphabets, shapes, and things mother  who always made me cry passing me on to father  problem child now at 55 mother who needs same patience love and affection  mothering i never learnt  now what you require  all lost on me how to be something  you've never met or known now weak and old demanding for mother who is softer  not strong and blank but this is all the mother i know
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the curse of a very sorry girl poet

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when has writing ever been enough? this sorry thorn on my side, not knowing just never knowing whether it is better to let it bleed or let it poke or let it die and all the shame returned to me on a beautiful autumn night when everything had been going so right. but when else does it all go so wrong? i suppose now is a good time. why was i stubborn as a child? why couldn't i  leave this rhyming behind? for more honourable things and far more admirable gifts is it true that my fate lies in what my beauty brings? oh mother! the very little that i can do and vanity does not make up for the things my untrained hands cannot do. and was it a crime to read so much? or find so much solace in writing. curse the pen and the hand that holds it; for making me nothing but  a very sorry girl poet.
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oh lover

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oh lover, patient keeper of all my woes when was it that i decided that i wouldn't mind keeping you close. sorry for the debacle at your front door who knew girl with fiery head would end up soft and silent purring in your warm bed. and well, sorry to have you keep up with all this performance. girl who seems confident overt with her self-assurance covert with her desire to believe all that she says and more and to receive the kind of love she has in store. who am i to make you treasure hunter, no map or compass  fight through the thick weeds of uncertainty; sharpening love into a machete. and who's to say  the treasure is worth all the wounding, bruising and bleeding. well, no matter may your wounded hands find me exploring still,  and then the nursing later. and if the wounds cannot heal may it be enough to have  witty company or that your hands have something to hold red locks, tender arms, or something more.
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cloudy love lessons

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awkward demeanor  let the clouds roll by as i try to imitate their grace fleeting softly, and then crowding just in time, to bring soft rains and when the light hits, just so very right, may colours cascade all those pretty hues and may my mouth learn their ease when it comes time to speak or confess sorry "i love you's" and if the sky is blue and meant to be clear for a sunny day may i learn to be recluse, but not in horror or embarrassment  may i learn to rest with the clouds wherever they go when the skies tire of their fluffy clutter 
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