Pistanthrophobia (Original Poem)

The Pirate and I had… a misunderstanding… or something. He was having a bad day, said I was being smothering, which I can see, and possibly agree with, but to me, the “why” is always the key. Why was I being smothering? Because something didn’t feel right. I have not been able to read his intentions, or what he thinks about me, and while he says with his words that he finds me interesting, and wants to keep me around… he’s shown no interest in ME, my life, my past, my hobbies. Every conversation goes back to the topics he’s interested in, or stories of his life. 

I found that it bothered me. I found that I wanted some sign, that wasn’t asked for, that he was actually interested in ME. As such, I couldn’t back off like he asked… I never seem to be able to do that, because it makes me nervous. It’s happened before, and it will probably happen again with the next guy, as I’m sure the Pirate is done with me. And several people feel that I should be done with him as well. I think I was building up to that, maybe? I don’t know. I know I’m sad at the thought. 

He posted a word on Instagram, one I did not know, and it (plus my actual feelings) are the inspiration for this poem. 

pistanthrophobia.jpg
I am frightened of you.
Frightened of the ways in which you can turn my world upside down.
Frightened of the way you can,
with a look or a simple condescending sentence,
destroy what tiny shred of my sense of self is left.

You ask me questions I cannot answer.

Fear grips me, binds my lips with caution tape,
my mouth fills with the blood of words nipped from my tongue by my own teeth.

I have listened to your harsh tones,
which mirror the harsh words thrown at me by men
much more cunning in the art of seduction,
and much more willing to spin a tale for me,
to build me up on a pedestal of
sweet deceit
only to tear me from my perch and toss me over
and down.

I am shattered,
and sewn together with the soft threads of hope,
thin, fraying strands pulled from the many silver linings of
a dozen false romances.

I am fragile,
and cannot bear your judgment.
The weight of your criticisms have already silenced me
while inside I scream to be heard,
my heart banging out that pitter patter rhythm,
a bird beating its wings against the rib cage beneath my breasts.

The anxiety fills me,
a sloshing abyss of oozing memories and fears
swirling through my mind,
reminding me of all the ways my words can be used against me,
have been used against me by men,
some like you,
and by you, yourself.

I cannot speak for fear that I shall say the wrong thing,
utter the wrong answer
to a question that should be opinion.

But I know my opinion is of little value,
I know my world, my history, my life
has no meaning in your eyes.

It is not
a conclusion I came to suddenly,
or a decision I made lightly,
but an analysis
made from the observations of
the way in which you choose to talk over
and around
and atop me and my feelings.

And it frightens me.
Causes me to make bad decisions,
causes me to scream inside my own head,
the anger and the fear and the desire,
tremulous thoughts echoing through my very soul.

Yet I wonder
if I can be so wrong about
the softness I feel in the way you touch me.
Or the way your lips brush so tenderly against my skin.
Or how you, who barely know me, gave me a gift
while those who’ve known me all my life forgot about me.

How can such sweetness exist amidst such harshness?

It frightens me into silence,
until the blood spills from my mouth into words on a page,
words which will be used against me,
as they always are.

Can you heal me?
Or will you break me?

I don’t know,
and it frightens me.

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