*today’s Poem of the Day is in .jpg format to preserve formatting

*this is the unformatted text of the poem

I fell so hard for him,
eager to exchange love and feel complete,
though my interpretation of such concepts was skewed by
a principled thrashing of an upbringing
and my racing youthful reasoning.

It wasn’t long
before we stained his bedsheets.

But I couldn’t enjoy the moment,
I had changed my mind mid-way,
and was too afraid not to let him finish.

Everything between us was rosy and warm,
yet so new and uncertain,
and I am the type to fear the worst possible consequences.

Which was worse to lose,
my heart or my soul?

I loved him.
I thought I loved Him.

So, I punished myself,
repeating that I hadn’t played my cards wisely,
drinking bitter disappointment and sour disgrace,
because I hadn’t followed a more virtuous plan.

There was supposed to be a ring,
a white dress,
sacred words, and a blessing
before I traded such a priceless piece of me.

I bottled up all my self-loathing,
because the pressure was my medicine…
and my poison.

When I tried to hide myself away,
shame and guilt ravenously consuming me,
he followed me without hesitation
rather than leave content with only what I let him have.

His face destroyed me further.
But it was his words that saved me.

It took me years to decide how I should feel,
to believe him and his ring,
that I was still a good and loveable thing.

I let that moment of unjustified regret haunt me,
claim me,
call me unworthy,
unholy, and filthy.

I listened to my mother’s words,
how I had lived in inexcusable sin,
let her toxins seep in and contaminate me.

I felt that hot, penitent breath in my ears
with every thrust from my husband’s hips
despite our loving matrimonial bed,
like the stab, stab, stab
of a sharp blade.

And one day,
when the voice began to rise like a tide,
to pull me under its influence once again,
I heard it so clearly,
and I realized it wasn’t mine.

The knife wasn’t righteous or atoning,
didn’t belong in my hand,
shouldn’t have been anointed by my disgust.

I learned its true name: a lie,
a belief that wasn’t meant to be mine
a tool that had manipulated me for far too long.

I was loved.
I deserved that love.

I was allowed to enjoy his weight on top of me.
Our bodies had always belonged together.

And finally,
the cold steel shattered against my skin.

–

Tinamarie Cox lives in Arizona with her husband, two children, and a one-eyed cat. Her written and visual work has appeared in numerous publications in various genres. She is the author of a poetry chapbook, Self-Destruction in Small Doses (Bottlecap Press, 2023), and a forthcoming collection, Through a Sea Laced with Midnight Hues (Nymeria Publishing, 2024). You can find more of her work at tinamariethinkstoomuch.weebly.com