Forlorn Jonesing

Image Credits: Julian Selemin, Contra

Honestly, I think I dislike you—
But often I find myself pausing
Somewhere between indifference
And what else did I expect?

Dislike feels too mild,
But hate sounds too much.
You have a way
Of drawing things out of me
That I don’t always recognize
Until it’s too late.

I’m not sure who I resent more—
You,
Or the version of myself
That keeps repeating the same pattern,
Even while trying to resist it.

My guard slips.
Things I’d rather keep hidden
Come into view,
And I try to mask it all
With confidence that doesn’t hold up.

Nights arrive quietly,
Not full of promise,
Just the same weight
Of thoughts looping back again,
Unchanging.

I tell myself I dislike you—
That it’s buried deep,
Under disappointment,
Some anger,
And a quiet frustration
With myself.

There’s no grand feeling now,
Just a blankness
That mirrors your calm,
Which somehow unsettles me.

And when I see myself—
Really see—
I’m not shocked,
Just a little tired
Of what keeps showing up.