She used to feel like home.
back when I couldn’t tell the difference
between the hand I wanted to hold
and the thumb she held me under.
The crushing pressure
of my reflection sinking further
until I couldn’t see myself existing
outside of her shadow.
And just like my home,
I knew I would have to leave her.
She let me love her with all my
insides on the outside
using my blood to draw a map,
my organs as scrying guides,
showing me exactly how and why
I didn’t need to feel loved back.
Our once seamless, in-step,
serendipitousness
has been replaced with
fumbling, bumbling, and loneliness.
Now she knows the back of my hands
clasped over my head
more intimately than my happiness.
Our eventual place to exist
became so low to the ground,
that it kicked up the dirt
we gagged on and gripped
so tightly in our fists
when she wanted to fight dirty.
“Couples’ tattoos are a deathwish,”
she said,
with our matching swollen eyelids.
Too many irreversible blows
to rationalize my invisible chains.
With our fingernails scratching
at each other’s hearts and throats,
together we erased the line between
love and insanity.
Our love pummeled me.
I hit the grass so audibly;
yet just like my pleas,
she didn’t hear me snap.
I never failed to forgive,
vowing better as I lived,
only to find my love-starved,
rib-caged animal heart
had picked up her scent again.
The tears and spit that lunged
reaching like hands between her teeth,
pooled like rainwater in my lungs
Until I felt couldn’t even breathe
without screaming.
I’d become…comfortable with the pain.
As if I’d broken my leg and had
gotten used to limping.
Now here I stand,
watching the smoke roll from my hands
where I’d held a rope that
paid no mind to my desperation.
Spring left a bittersweet taste
In my mouth,
to my morning dew.
As new love begins to bloom
like daffodils, or plumes,
the fresh air gives a sad relief
to those of us still on our knees;
the quiet clarity of our “us”
coming to an end.”
Photo Credit: clairecarey Flickr via Compfight cc
