The Rotten Olive

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With eyes turned inwards in contemplation

You write the words on the inside of your skull

You rehearse every line until its damn near perfect

So when it finally comes out it sounds like a recording

Not even your voice

Played back on their answering machine

With no response

No call back…

But this is real life, face to face,

you have no technology to hide behind

You say what you wanted,

what you needed to say, but it comes out sounding different than you imagined

A little more fucked up than you intended

Not like the conversations you practiced in your head

Filling the empty spaces with hypothetical responses

Words that were so sweet and understanding

They smelled like freshly washed laundry

Tasted like brie cheese with pear on salted crackers

And it all went down smoothly, and the guilt was fleeting

in your mind, like,

“So what if you indulged a little too freely and it shows in your Brunswick Street dress” 

But her silence is worse than the rotten olive stuck in your oesophagus 

you choke, reword, retell, try again

apologize.

No spoonfuls of steamy dialogue to drip down your chin

She tells you to strip that damn grin off your face

You strip off layers of fabric instead. 

And you laugh and smile harder because you’re nervous

about having another one of these hard conversations you don’t want to have

But know you have to

She asks you if you are just with her because it’s easy

“And you say seriously? This, easy?”

It’s not always easy, to be honest.

 

 

 

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