Love Gone In Fifty
Nothing Dryer than Rye
bandaids on bullet holes
freshly painted on smiles
patching up souls
with pure filtered sunshine
living the life
that she never dreamed
says she's doing alright
no matter what it seems
broken beyond fixin
mending hearts bustin' seams
her whiskey is mixed
with strangers and thieves
love gone a "rye"
About the Creator
Kelli Sheckler-Amsden
Telling stories my heart needs to tell <3 life is a journey, not a competition
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Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
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Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova2 days ago in Poets
Comments (15)
Love Gone In Fifty wonderful writing
Wow how wonderful ♦️♦️♦️♦️
Those last three lines Kelli - just perfect.
"her whiskey is mixed with strangers and thieves love gone a "rye" These lines are magic!!
Makes me think of the song "American Pie". A dangerous way to cope with difficult circumstances that give no indication they will ever change. The reality for far too many.
Gurl you came and tapdanced on it! 😁 Simply phenomenal! 💪🏾🫶🏾🩷
Man, oh man! That has a smoothness that almost makes a drink necessary after reading it. Cool entry!
Well-wrought and clever wordplay!
Ahh I love a good pun. Great poem, short and poignant!
Way to go and this is one way to describe a wrong way relationship. Good job.
Holy hell, that is fabulous! Well done.
Beautiful, Kelli.
So good, Kelli!!!!
Awesome!!! 🤩
Loved this! Powerful, loved the play on words!