fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet.

With Baggage



“What do you want?” I asked.

“I only want… you”, she said.

“Do you?” I replied.  “Do you want… me?

I come with baggage…”

“…I come with baggage, full of the existence I knew before you.  Of adult children and their mother, and enough sorrow to ruin lives to the third and fourth generation.  I come with highs and lows that swell and crash like waves on broken rocks in the middle of winter doubts.

“I come with failures reminiscent of the taste inside my mouth, the morning after a night of beer and whiskey on the couch, and the smell of my sin-soaked soul.  I come with an unfulfilled need for acceptance, never once embraced in the affectless arms of another.

“I come with a misguided sense of right and wrong, that clouds my reason and draws me to hopeless causes until my strength is gone, and I quit without warning.  I come with all optimistic insanity, born of a faith that has since died, but continues to grow like the hair and nails of a corpse lying unclaimed in the morgue.

“I come with blind eyes, wide open to the faults in the one to whom I choose to give my soul, and I come with hearing ears, straining to understand, hanging on every word of the one for whom I wish to lay my heart down.

“I come with passion and desire.  I come with tenderness and care.  I come with strength and force, infliction and remorse, but most of all I come with the belief that if something is yours, no power invisible or other, can stand against it.  Most of all, I come with love…”

“Do you?” I replied.  “Do you want… me?”


© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday


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4 thoughts on “With Baggage

  1. and what did she say? 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: 29 out of 30 | Bill Friday

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