i say i’ll be back soon
knowing full well
soon may not be soon
enough
no matter if it’s now
or in your final momentsit is going to break
my heart, i know
i am denying the inevitable
whether or not this is the last time,
i must learn to say goodbye
you are a pond
in the dead of winterand i heave myself at you like
a stone that shatters
the still surfacesending splinters echoing
through the ice
like small electric currentsi unsettle
the mud that has lain
tranquil at the bottomand i turn the water brown
i scare the fish
away.
I washed the sheets four times (once
for every year you dreamt beside me)
before your smell
no longer lingered.I deleted all of your
voice messages on my phone, but
they still replay
in my dreams some nights, and
I will always know your texts by heart.I put all your clothes I gathered over the years, tangible
bits and pieces of you, into a garbage bag
and donated them, but
I still wake up on cold mornings wishing I had
that black jacket of yours.I tore apart
every picture of us, and still
it took me too long to be able to
convince myself there was no missing
half in all those photos of just me.I have flipped it so many times, and yet
I cannot get the imprint of
you out of my memory
foam mattress. The outline of your body
etched in chalk on a crime scene.
You wrapped your finger around the loose end
and pulled and pulled and pulled until
it broke;
an absentminded afterthought
hurriedly shoved into the armrest of my car
on your way out.
The hemmed end of your shirt left frayed and
blowing in the wind as
you walked away;
a sad reminder of how it used to be before
it’s innards were pulled out.Weeks fall away and it still sits there—
the small ball of pink thread;
the mark of your territory on my heart.
The last piece of you. The only thing
holding us together.
is there a right way to do it?
These days,
I have lost myself:
not in the highs, the news telecasts,
or her eyes.
In a moment.
I am
somewhere in the universe.
I am
every episode of Friends, yesterday’s breakfast burrito,
every 3 a.m. conversation.
I am.
I have shattered myself
into a million tiny pieces,
and it is scary but
liberating.
the ebb and flow
of tides.
the sun sets
and rises.
the look of love in
your eyes.
everything changes,
everything dies.
dust constantly collected
on the windowsills
and in the corners
of the room, but
i liked that because
i always knew where to find it.
a firm
mattress was my muse,
pulling words like taffy
pulling poetry that left
a sweetness on my tongue
and a purpose almost as
defined,
as solid, as sturdy
as the walls.
this was home home until
i grew too big and my limbs
tore down the frame.
all that remains:
my body, full of splinters
and a yearning
for the way
the sleepy sun shone
through the windows.
i reside in
what i don’t own
what isn’t home
what isn’t mine anymore.i reach for hands
i once found shelter in,
i slip on my feet and
scrape the bottom of this
circulating stream.i once sought structure
in the scattered.i’m carried off
to go somewhere
i do not know
that isn’t mine
that isn’t home.
please don’t love me.
nobody knows better
than i,
it will be a waste of time.
i’d love your eyes more than
any eyes in my life,
i’d lose myself in them
for weeks at a time and
wake up hungover in
strange places.
the best time to write is when
i’m sorry or sleepy because
the words flow unapologetically–
they do not try so hard to sound good.there is a drum in the front of my brain,
and I don’t know if it’s
because of the rain or the way
the dentist drilled my gums today.it is empty in the house, but too loud
with my mother’s anxieties,
and the air is heavy with tears
that are shed once the lights go out–
shed like room for growth and
thicker walls–
shed like hair, like skin,
to make room for
something new and healthy and strong.what do we shed with our tears?
our weakness? our pain?
Silenticel 