Pia Bramley
Goodbye, rabbi.
Men only know extremes. Either suffocated or suffocating.
I said I need space! and he said I already give you so much of it!
Not enough of me to be an appealing offer.
Men don’t want a woman who only wants to see them once every two weeks, a woman who Isn’t Ready.
Men also don’t want a woman who loves them.
Zero-sum hell pit.
I deleted Hinge (again) because I’m back on my Fate shit (again); what’s meant to be will be, right time, right place; that’s how you meet the love of your life, don’t you know? Not on the internet. Your next-last lover is waiting for you somewhere else.
Like Louise Gluck wrote:
I think now it is better to love no one/than to love you.
No one it is.
Forcing nothing.
I turn thirty-five next week.
I wonder what I’ve accumulated all this time outside of debt and resentment. I want to grab a twenty-five-year-old by the shoulders and tell her nothing changes; you just get slower, and time stays horrible and too fast.
It’s time to put grandma to bed.
I wanted two things for my birthday this year: to find an apartment and to close a chapter that has been haunting me for too long.
In line with tradition, I have not gotten either.
My sister’s response to my heartbreak harping is always the same:
Sara, he’s sooooooo ugly…
I wonder if I’ve ever loved a man who wasn't.
And I wonder if that really is the whole point, the only takeaway.
I write poems to avoid answering the question:
Golden Handcuffs
In the scheme of perfection
don't I dream of pissing
on the deck of his secret boatSarah calls it a haunting,
You’re doing it to each other!
But I think I’m doing it more beautifully.
His ghost is crude, and mine is thoughtful & generous, with its testaments to time and all of the fucking poetry.
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I also have a new collection of poetry available digitally for those interested.
Me, I’m the 25 year old!