Beginning of the End

Why do you leave me
so unsatisfied?

I try.
I concentrate.
I let go.
I try,

but nothing,
and I don’t think you notice.

I roll over
with almost-tears
in my eyes
because I wonder
if you feel
the apartness
as vividly as I do.

Is it glowing
in bright red,
that line we’ve drawn?

Can you see it
pull tighter
in its technicolor bindings?

Was it ever really anything else?

You and me and that line,
that boundary I can’t cross
because you won’t see me
even if I show you.
You’re incapable,
and it’s not your fault.

You should love someone simpler,
and I am nothing
but tight knots
encased in cured metal–
complicated and impossible.

You leave me unsatisfied
more and more,
and it’s the beginning
of the end.

I can feel it slithering
up my bones,
and I’m afraid.

I’m afraid
because I’ve felt it before
under gray skies
and rented roofs.
I left then,
but it wasn’t permanent

like this.

It didn’t take me so long
to realize,
not like this time
when the mire is so much more
venomous and sticky,
so filled with past and future,
starts and stops,

but I don’t know how much longer
I can drift in this doldrums
before I’ll have to run.




Let Me Out

The voices in the basement
with raw throats,
breath catching
in warped lungs empty of hope,

and I can hear them
scratching at the door,
begging to be let out,

so I listen,
I reach in,
and grasp their noise
with bleeding fists,

and I let them out.

I watch as they emerge
on tiptoes,
my sympathy,
my touch,
and I give in
as they grow claws
that sink into my wicked flesh.

I’ve relinquished control,
sending pieces of me
into your web,
into the prickly words
you call love,
but I’ve let them out
and I can’t go back.

The purity faded
into bubbling backgrounds
decades ago,
and I’m left with
tarnish and facade,
but you say it’s okay
because it’s just
what girls like me do.

It’s just who I am now.


a shining example
of what happens
when you let them out.





Photo Credit: CassiusB at

I am spinning.

On a rocket-fueled gust
of hurricane winds,
I’m tumbling,
plummeting on icy waves
of a perfect storm.

The handholds are fog,
the saviors,

and the ground grows close,
so close that I can smell
my blood in the grass,
my bones mixed with dirt.

Rescue me.


Save me from myself.





Photo Credit: machihuahua at

The sand burns
beneath my feet,
my bones ache
from trudging centuries
without rest,
and I am still


for the pain,
for the agony I feel
when I reach for you.

It is my beacon
amongst these vast places
I traverse in search
of your hands,
your skin against mine,
our mouths locked and twisting.

Feed me my pain,
satisfy me with your corruption,
with our cavernous need
for this unquestionable obedience
that binds us.





This swirling mess
of bedazzled matter
chokes on
its own
infinite cask –
rebelling and rappelling
from the salinated
fetishes digging
cancerous holes beneath
a veneer
of complacence.

Inward –
staunched and blanched-
I see arms and hands,
instruments of connection
that reach out and recoil
under the pain of rejection…

under the guise
of integrity.

These pieces fall,

by the doubt
that grips and buries
us under the myth
of hope.

© Patience and Christopher Rupley 2016


This is a collaboration between myself and my good friend, Chris. He is my favorite person to write with! Please take a look at his other work on his amazing blog.


I want men who refuse to speak.
They shut down and disappear,
run from me or the problem
or something I can’t seem to see.

Every one
stares blank-faced,
and keeps his lips clamped tight,
his brain behind countless locks,
and I never seem to have the key.

Maybe it’s because
I have too many words,
too many thoughts,
that I drown them in language,
suffocate them in so many syllables
that they disappear
behind my waves,
my incessant talk.

But even in my own dark silence,
they refuse.

Their own quiet
supercedes my own,
and I end up staring
at blank screens
filled with all the words
they refuse to say
pushed against all the ones
I can’t keep inside.



I’m So Confused

It’s worse to discover someone is not who you thought they were than knowing they were against you from the start. I can’t comprehend how one can transform like this, how you can say one thing and then blackout, go dark in an instant. You didn’t fade. You vanished. 

And I don’t understand because I am who I say. I told you my truth and you wanted to move forward anyway. I know I was hesitant at first (I usually always am), but then I revealed my vulnerabilities and somehow let you tear new holes in them. I let you in and you turned into something else, someone else who won’t even take the time to explain the change, to tell me the truth.

You are not like I thought you were, and I’m so baffled that I don’t know what to do. 



Interval or The Space Between Things 

Sometimes I wonder
about the space between things,
the intervals between
here and there,
far and near,
the minutes or footsteps
stretched out or compressed.

At times,
we are so close,
the space encompassing
inches instead of miles,

and then we float away,

thousands of steps left
before our fingers meet again.

And the space
between then and now,
between here and there
hangs like old sweaters
in forgotten closets,
never crossed,
never changed.

It just stays

like we do,
forming new spaces
for us to traverse.


I was working on vocabulary with my students today, and one of our words was interval. The definition presented was “the space between things.” I proceeded to tell them I thought this was a beautiful string of  words worthy of a poem.  They disagreed, so here is my poem. 🙂





I’m sad
and I’m missing you

but I don’t really know
who you are anymore.

Which part do I long for?

Whose arms can I almost feel
enveloping me in warm safety,
in serenity made from skin,
from bones and soft eyes
and all the things
that make you human,
that make you

I’m not sure anymore
who I need
or if I just need
to fix myself.
And that’s bullshit
because I know I do,
but I’m not sure how 

or if I even want to,

and all these
hands and
words and
stir up

the me

I used
to be,
the me
this body
that moves
through life
as if
it were real.

I know the answer
and it’s too hard to bear,
so I pretend
I miss lips on hot skin
and ethereal words
whispered over white screens
instead of fixing the pieces
cupped in my bleeding hands.