Poem about my &&#*ed up ex boyfriend

[ninanevermore]

The guy I dated in college, Frank, the one I got arrested over in the most memorable event of my sophomore year, was not a well-adjusted boy.

Here's what I learned between the ages of 18 and 19 from dating this guy: Whenever you meet someone and they seem a little screwed up, don't think to yourself, "Oh, I can help him/her! He/She needs me!" Instead, you should turn around and run away as fast as you can. Seriously. If you have a relationship with a screwed-up person, they are not going to get well from being around the good influence that is you. Instead, you are going to wind up almost as screwed up as they are, feeling used and bitter in the end when they move on to their next "savior."

The conversation I wrote this poem about really did happen. The pathos it describes goes a lot deeper than it looks on the surface (and on the surface it's still pretty messed up). Too late, I figured out that any person who couldn't accept himself was not going to able to accept me, either. Nothing I ever did was good enough, and he constantly belittled me when I failed to live up to the ideal woman he though I should be.

It takes a fairly well-adjusted person, comfortable in their own skin, to accept you totally. I was young and dumb. That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.


Mexicans

We lay side by side,
my eyes opened,
drinking in the darkness,
my ears absorbing the sound
of his breathing
when out of nowhere,
for reasons unknown,
he said, "I hate Mexicans."

I glanced toward his profile,
his eyes were closed,
wrapping him in his own darkness,
and I asked quietly, mildly,
"Really? All of them?
Every last one?"

He opened his eyes,
then shut them again,
considering his hatred,
thumbing through it,
before responding,

"Well, I guess my Mom's all right."

I lay next to him in the dark,
my eyes opened,
looking for stars in the night sky
that poured in through my window,
pondering his absurdity --
wondering whether to laugh at him
or cry for him --
when he rolled over on his side
away from me
and fell asleep.




-Nina Erickson
May 2006
© 2006

Comments

[mad-jamison.livejournal.com]

I read the story about your arrest, and I think you've got me beat. I have a lot of tall tales in my archives (all true, unless stated otherwise). You have a knack for telling a story. Thanks for sharing that. I liked the poem too, but the story was kickass.

[ignusfaatus.livejournal.com]

yow

[adamant-turtle.livejournal.com]

That's so great.

[whirring-mind.livejournal.com]

Gawd!

[bbart.livejournal.com]

I have to admit that's one helluva story.

Your poem is wonderful.

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

I'm not sure what's so kick-ass about being the biggest wimp in the history of people being arrested, though I have to admit that the whole thing is a lot funnier in hindsight. At the time it was just...stressful. ;)

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

That's the only good thing about f*cked-exes - they give you a lot of good stories to tell once they are safely out of your life.

[bbart.livejournal.com]

Ha, so true.

[noblwish.livejournal.com]

It's 'cuz you're so darn CUTE!

Embrace the cuteness! It is your greatest weapon!

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

Yeah, but they don't know here how cute I am. Here, I'm just a little yellow duck.

Which, come to think of it, is pretty cute.

Nevermind.