Spoken word poetry: I want you to call me HONEY

Look, I’m not sure if you’ve heard this word once, twice or a million times but I sure think this isn’t so much of a struggle for an engineer like you who knows more of the complicated ins and outs of a turret cannon with a built in Hiroshima bomb that could wipe out the entire universe when you take a breath.
You see this isn’t a piece from that jigsaw puzzle you always played with when you were out with friends busting your exes at an Irish pub or the lego bricks you’d patiently assemble and disassemble whenever you feel like breaking someone’s heart.
Honey. Call me honey. I want you to call me honey NOT bunny or Lenny or Benny but Honey.
For Christ’s sake! Why is it so difficult to get the words to come out of your lips? Why do I have to drag them out of you like I’m dragging a piece of my neighbors’ underwear? And why does it feel so heavy in my breast whenever I see that strong sense of disinterest and ignorance in your face? Am I too undesirable to you? Am I so full of indignation that you feel like to indignate on my face like it’s some shit you needed to rub off your ass?

Is it something that I do that keeps you from closing the door to the secret spaces in your heart? Is it something that I say that moves you from this house to that house. From point A to point B,C,D and to infinity? Is it something that I give that turns you cold?
Perhaps, I am too undesirable that it’s hard for you to swallow, so difficult for your heart to keep throbbing. I feel like using a scalpel to slit your neck vertically and remove your Adams apple because then I can say that I have partaken in your pain as much as the poison that killed the snow white in me.
I feel so anxious that I wanted to put a stethoscope in your heart to feel that once warm and excited sound resonating into my ears, and into my blood stream.

You see I was ready to take my first big leap at love. Honey, I was more than ready to assume that you would still like me even after you’ve left me. And that you’d come back to me like nothing’s happened and that you’d knock out that door screaming I miiiiiiiiiiiiisssss you, Honey!
Oh but none of those is ever going to happen. None of my worries will ever be calmed. And none of my hopes or my dreams will come true because none or nothing in you loves me more than I love you.

I still remember the day when I upset you for something only you know. You threw a tantrum like a child with aspergers and turret syndrome combined. You didn’t want to listen to me or to my words. No explanations could ever get through you or how you have made up your mind to something you believed to be true. You were so angry I could die! I was so scared I wished that the skies would flip and hell be our ceiling. You were throwing flames of spiced up words of distrust and disrespect God knows I never claimed or spoke about them in my prayers.

You hurt me, you know. And far too many times at that. And yet, I still keep you like how I kept all those pain you gave me. I still let you knock on my door like you always do as if I am such a woman of ill repute who’s always at your mercy, always buying what you are selling and always catching what you are throwing away, always having tears as reserve even when you have never even shed a tear for me.
Sometimes, I seem to forget my own identity and I feel like I’m one of the soldiers fighting in the battle field. The only difference is that I never get to hold my own weapon and I just let the bullets rejoice upon hitting every parts of my body. I let you hit me with your painful whips.

And maybe even after going through all that, you’d never wonder how I withstood all the hot beatings despite my falling and spilling blood in my sleep.

Well as stubborn as I might seem, or I may just have a relapse in judgement when I stood behind the door with all the clothes you threw, the glasses broken and left over food littered on the floor like some painting done by a madman or some bartender frantically mixing cocktails for his mistress,


I still hoped for this impossible to become possible that one day, when you have calmed down and freed your mind from anger, when you have learnt to see me as someone precious even without the help of wild flowers and rainbows

I still hoped that you’d call me “HONEY.”

I knew what I’ve lost then. I knew what I have traded then.
I lost myself.
I traded my life.


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