Aversive.

When did your stare become unconcerned, eyes hazy,
all the times I would make the commitment to do
any activity with you. Your lips constantly form excuses.
You aren't a slave to labor or ever have to stay out
until dusk. You are always at the head of the
dinner table, but we can never do the little things
before dark.

The stargazing, the board games, the mini golf...
You now call me anti-social, a recluse, attached
to the computer screen.

But I don't care that much about technology,
I'd give all that up in a heartbeat if you cared
to ask me to go with you
(I just grew tired of trying, after awhile).

Why do your questions have to revolve around work, or class?
As if I took a leave an absence from either would cause
you more stress than my general health, or the way
my insides surge when I contemplate what future I'll have.

When did my womanhood become the only reason
to tell others about my achievements, to be proud
that I could wear a dress and clean up well,
as if rags on my skin and dirt on my cheeks
would turn me into someone less lovable.

My feelings toward you don't make sense, anymore.
It wasn't really abuse, was it? Are words that mighty?
The answer is yes, every time memories become
my choice poison.

I'd like to think I can control my damn emotions
(but not when they concern you).

-
Written 9/13/14 @ 7:44 PM
Freewrite, (vent) again.