There’s a poem in me today; I know it. There’s a poem about a smile which makes my chest ache and a corpse somewhere that barely resembles a body and a loss that I’ll never truly know.
There’s a poem in me about a man that scares me and a nervous response that I regret each time it forces my face into a smile.
There are novels in me about lives unlived and restless staring at a blank sheet of paper as the stories fight amongst each other instead of preserving their selves.
There are worlds in me that you’ll never know and souls that I will never touch and lovers that will never meet without me.
And yet I file away at the edges of the days until they are dull and blunt.
Heavy lids on green eyes on grey matter.
Bitter tongue and burnt fingertips.
Hollow thoughts and weak limbs.
A full mind and an empty phonebook.
A life I miss.
And a series of lives I couldn’t.
In this building of nurses insisting I press the bell and let them help, the panic attack plays through without witness.
A midnight delivery scares the birds out of the trees and into the sky; free and flying and soon they will be calm.
Another minute passes. Another moment closer to morning. Another cry down the hallway from a man who doesn’t know what morning is.
Brief interlude ends;
Too soon you’ll be a stranger.
Former life resumes.
Withdrawing from you is like the oxygen has been pulled from the air. Heaving in another useless, lifeless breath, wishing to just suffocate already and get it over with.
Lying here bleeding through a half-arsed dressing
Hoping tomorrow I might get hit by a truck.
Who the hell are you meant to tell this shit to.
Who are you meant to call in the middle of the night when it all feels too much, and you know you’ll just need the same words of comfort tomorrow, too.
I’ll make another joke about it that you won’t read into.
And I’ll laugh as I bleed into my sheets, because I’m just that pathetic.
I’ll laugh at the notion that after it ends someone might think twice and learn a warning sign or two.
When I said I wanted more, I didn’t mean a concussion.
The black and blue handprints have faded.
And somehow I miss you.
You’re the dusky nothing
That fills my head;
You’re the lazy Sunday
That shares my bed;
You’re the end of the world;
But also the beginning?
You’ve been barely a thought
Since the day that I left.
Oh to think that
It was love.