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Poetry | 2014

Baby Talk

When it’s fine between us, I’m his baby. A baby whose words don’t mean a thing. He leaves me to my devices, in my case toys, and everything I say, he doesn’t hear like our sleeping bodies by the noisy window. I cry and I am not ignored, I am told everything is okay. He cradles me and tells me words that are sweetly saturated with fat lies.

I hope to myself: One day I’ll learn to speak his language, so he’ll hear me out. I’m more than his baby.

I don’t think I know how not to be his baby. I’m not sure anymore if I ever knew, like I can’t remember when I was given my name. He asks me questions, but I don’t believe I ever said anything significant. In my blank lines in my mind, these words rewrite themselves when I feel alone enough.

I don’t mind being his baby, but I’d much rather feel like his lover.

July 23rd 2014 (After the Fog?)

Thank you love.

Though these words may mean nothing to you,

you are the reason

I believe that the pale blue feelings

inside me

will never go away.

Like mistiness of the fog that you

love so much

I can’t get it to leave me,

so I ask it never go away.