Steph Bruzon

I’ve seen three psychics since I let the idea of

us go, 

and a psychiatrist who flirted with me

/

because he was your age, 

so he figured he had a chance

/

because I’m fragmented,

so this is romance.

this is romance: 

/

masculine projections

that are never enough. 

/

old hands, 

lonely in their longing, 

soft in the places

where they’re rough. 

/

years worth of fear,

never found the one,

so it must be me. 

/

why must my womb be a refuge

for men without mothers? 

/

why must my breasts be your airbags, 

and my long, black hair the covers

you hide underneath 

/

until it’s safe enough for you to 

act like a man. 

/

why must my womb be a refuge

for men without mothers?

/

why must you crawl back into my mind

to steal another phrase out of my mouth 

to tuck away into the waistband

of all your wasted time. 

/

my ribbons are torn;

I’m no good.

/

I’m not an artist like you thought. 

I’m not misunderstood.

/

I’m soft flesh 

over ligaments, 

and I’ve got a case of

old matriarchy blues: 

/

I’m not the mother life gives you, 

I’m the mother that you choose. 

/

I’m not an artist.

/

I’m someone who knows how to love,

someone who loves

to lose. 

/

someone who loves

in order to lose

/

who loses

in order

to love. 

/

so,

take my ribbons,

pink organs 

in your ripe

and useful hands.

/

I’ll ask you to feed me, 

and tie the ribbons back when it’s time. 

/

but I’ll never know what I want to eat, 

(too busy spoon-feeding you attention

to pay any 

to my own hunger) 

/

and I won’t ask you to have patience 

for the woman that you need 

but don’t actually want. 

/

and I’ll love you, 

I’ll love you,

/

and you’ll love me, 

you’ll convince yourself

that you really do

/

because my soul is 

so contagious, so profound 

that it’s outrageous,

that it gives the impression 

that the receiver has it, too.

/

but I am only the vessel, the surrogate 

for the mother who could not

love you.