Small Business Saturday by Caitlin Conlon

bottlecappress:

on a tender mid-winter saturday
we offered each other the morning after
with open palms.
too vulnerable to clench our fists
after everything we’ve seen each other do,
this is the only way we know how to communicate without
acknowledging what we knocked into the fire.
all of those seconds we spent lying through our teeth
because we put faith in the probability of
two people telling the truth at the same time.
the irony is that we were never ones for
timing.
your wrist has never felt the security of a watch,
I arrive early or not at all,
but it wasn’t until that snow covered crossroad
in front of that snow covered church
that I really felt just how off we were.
you know, I’ve spent so long
making myself numb enough to retain your blows
that I can’t remember how to
kiss myself into recovery.
whoever said self-love was easy
has never grown around a tree trunk
as unforgiving as you.
god, I wish my ax wasn’t a pile of ash
that I haven’t bothered to clean up.
I should’ve known that allowing someone in your house
isn’t the same thing as giving them a key.
anyways,
I’m sorry about the poems,
I’m sorry that I keep saying
“this is the last one, there’s nothing left to say”
when we both know that this waterfall in my chest
loves gravity too much to do anything other than
fall
fall
fall.
you are thick in my throat, like oatmeal.

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Caitlin Conlon is a 19 year old aspiring poet who relies on her plants to remind her that she’s still growing. Currently an English Major at the University at Buffalo, she has previously been published via Thought Catalog.

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