Roughing It | A Poem

 

I always whispered to myself

“We would make it.”

But the memory of how the word was spoken—

The hardened, cold lack of emphasis

for the L in it 

made me cling to all the anxiety ridden phobias

I never wanted to.

I was there on the cusp,

Lying still with your head on my chest

rising and falling with each breath taken

Willing my lips to shape the words

my heart demanded I release 

I could see myself wading through anything

if I always had you 

But with the steady gong of each labored heartbeat

I felt the raw chafing against the walls of my unconcealed soul

like a feral warning 

and I knew I could never shake the fear 

of a lover's deception.

Even my own.