Summary

A writer reflects on his intimate relationship and the therapeutic nature of his writing, which sometimes includes past experiences with other women, leading to tension with his current partner.

Abstract

The narrative unfolds in a bedroom where a writer is confronted by his partner about his writing, which she suspects is about past romantic or sexual encounters. Despite his attempts to downplay the content, he admits to writing about another woman, though it was about an argument and not the physical aspect of their past relationship. The act of writing serves as a form of therapy for the writer, who finds it more affordable than seeing a therapist. The tension between the couple escalates when she questions why she visits him, but it later dissipates as they reconcile through physical intimacy and the act of reading poetry together. The writer closes the piece by suggesting that their night together surpasses any poem he has written about other women.

Opinions

The partner is insecure and possibly jealous about the writer's subject matter.
The writer values his writing as a cathartic process, regardless of the discomfort it may cause his partner.
There is an underlying tension regarding the writer's past relationships and how they are portrayed in his work.
The writer seems to find more emotional release and financial practicality in writing than in seeking professional psychological help.
Despite the initial conflict, there is a deep connection and affection between the writer and his partner, as evidenced by their intimate reconciliation.
The writer implies that his current relationship and the experiences within it are more significant than his written memories of past liaisons.

Read To Me

Photo by Alexander Possingham on Unsplash

she opens the door and walks into the room taking a seat on the foot of my bed

“what are you doing?”

“i’m writing babe”

she finishes her drink wiping her mouth with her sleeve as she lets out a grunt

“you’re writing about fucking other girls again aren’t you”

i look up from my old laptop the weight of it’s ancient bones comfortable in my lap

“i’m just writing babe”

she shakes her head in disgust stands up slamming the empty can on my dresser she turns to glare at me

“i don’t even know why i fucking come over here”

then she walks out i can hear her close the door to the bathroom across the hall

she was right i was writing about another girl however, it wasn’t about fucking her it was about a fight an unforgettable evening i haven't spoken to her in years and don’t plan too

it’s therapeutic less money than a shrink i think

but i do write about fucking other girls

maybe that’s therapeutic too that i don’t know

i hear her finish up in the bathroom so i close my laptop slide it under the bed

she comes into the room without saying a word wearing just her underwear she goes through my closet until she finds a t shirt she likes

she slides into bed her leg across mine head on my chest her eyes closed

“read to me”

i slip Robinson Jeffers off my nightstand run my fingers through her autumn hair and pick a poem

“Wise men in their bad hours have envied The little people making merry like grasshoppers In spots…”

after a few poems i hit the light and she moves on top of me

that night we make it better than any poem i’ve ever written about any other girl

Read To Me

It is Not

A Poem

an easy lesson

a poem