The OCD poet was the first thing I shared with him. Neil Hilborn in his spoken word genius performance, expressing everything I couldn’t. I remember thinking to myself “is he going to think I’m weird? Crazy? Is he going to think poetry is stupid? Is it going to resonate with him the way it sat so proper in my chest?
I waited for his reaction, pushing play immediately after sliding it into his DM on Facebook. I wanted to gauge the amount of time it should take him to listen, to process the words, the inflection, the pain, the love.
The love, that’s what I wanted him to understand. Broken doesn’t mean we can’t love, in fact we do, we do it better because we know what it feels like to have pieces of ourselves left like splinters in another.
I didn’t hold my breath I just waited. If I read him correctly and I thought I had, he might even like it.
was his response and I finally exhaled…maybe I had been holding my breath after all. I knew if he liked my OCD poet we would be okay… I would be able to peel back the layers of myself, of him and hopefully we would be the kind of onion that was sweet and didn’t leave salt stains on flushed faces.
I cry every single time at this memory and I want to stop watching Neil Hilborn and his perfect delivery but I can’t…I watch and I remember that silly optimistic woman that held her breath hoping that the man she loved could understand…would want to understand.
I am so profoundly sad. I just want the opportunity to look him in the eyes and ask him after all this time, why?
How could someone who loved poetry…
I am haunted by the memories, all of them.