my heart hangs
from the ceiling fan; a kite
i never really learned
how to fly.
a bloody carousel
i paid too much
to ride.
an exhibit
to be displayed for the rest
of my life, my remains sit
behind plastic wrap walls
that
leave no handprints,
eternally orbiting
emptiness.
i assured myself his eyes
would always search for me
in the cracks between the pavement
and his ears would listen for me
when the wolves
howled at night.
but now i know
he’s filled those cracks
with softer skin and
while the wolves
howl, his ears are full
of her laughter,
and so
it doesn’t
even
matter.
i am nothing
to him anymore.
and so a piece of me dies.
i am a little less
of who i was before.
Silenticel 