Will You?

Will you?

I may choose to remain in the dark,
but will you still be there to lift the rock
when I feel it's safe enough
to climb out from beneath it?

I’ve been want of love and light for so long
your truth burns my eyes.
That’s why I keep on running back.
So afraid I am of control, that I flee
from your hotline and safe house,
right back into the hell from where I’ve come.

But that doesn’t mean you aren’t my lighthouse,
my beacon in the darkness to keep me
from banging my own ship against the rocky shore. 
That doesn’t mean I don’t thank you every single night
for showing me that there is another way,
when I’m ready, when the time is right.

But please don’t be mad at me when I feel I might suffocate
from the sweet oxygen your words bring, for its been denied for so long.
I know I contradict myself, seeking freedom from the unknown
by returning to the known, to where freedom has no place. 
I know it makes no sense.  But neither does love that strangles,
or marriage that merges two souls into one, while the other disappears.

And promise me you won't lose patience when I’m finally brave enough
to climb all the way to the high dive, only to waste your time as you wait for me
to climb back down with my proverbial tail between my legs.
Your prayers for me may not have been answered, this time around,
but your efforts have not gone unnoticed.

I may not always be able to look you in the eyes, but please,
do not think me angry with you.  Your seed was not tossed on rock alone. 
It’s just buried somewhere deep inside me, like a seedling trapped
between dry earth and stone, too scared of being crushed to ask for nurishment.


What if I decide to take refuge in your safehouse, will you be there
to comfort me when I drown in the bliss of a fearless night?
If I leave this hell, what if I end up with another . . . ,
another soul thief in disguise, with a nice smile and protective arms?
I don’t even know how to tell the difference anymore.  Will you teach me?

I mean, speaking of contradictions, when is a bouquet of roses  . . .
just a bouquet of roses?  When is love a fond companionship,
and not a matching set of handcuffs? When is silence
a quiet evening, and not the calm before the storm?
Where does a woman learn these things?
Did I skip the class in school that would have taught me
how to prevent a man from loving me to death?

Somewhere along the way, I believe I had a little hole in my purse
and out slipped that voice.  Where did it go, you know,
the one that says RUN? Or is it still there, mute, or maybe
its just sitting in a closet with duct tape across its mouth?
And what about the eyes that are supposed to see the disapproval
behind a grin, the insulting smirk behind the laugh,
for I must have been blind to the nuances of hate.

Torrents of questions plague me each time I decide
to call you, call the hotline, or just leave him. These questions
are like stones on my grave, marking the place my body
is destined to lie, or blankets that hide me, preventing my saviors
from finding me before its too late.  Maybe, these questions
are like hash marks on my bedframe, keeping score
for each slap, each hurtful word or shove, every degrading slight.

Or maybe, just maybe, these questions are pebbles
that will pave the path out of this hell to safety.
And if . . . no, when I finally make this journey
down the steep and trecherous road to freedom,
will you . . will you still be there to hold my hand? 



SWPoet