I am trying to write you out of my skin.
That is to say: You are still here.
You are running in circles, you are making me dizzy. I am confused.
I thought these years had put me back together;
you’d found me broken, now we were whole.
Then you broke the promises you made and I’m not ready to break again.
I’m trying to write it all down, every corner and jagged edge.
That is to say: I am not finished.
I never can be, can I? I meant what I said. I never will be finished.
These words are stains on eyes and lips, on the tips of planes
that have torn the skies and crashed, buried in an afterthought.
I’m trying to end it all.
You already have.
I am trying to catch up with time, all over again.
It was light outside when you left for work. I was barely awake.
I should have stayed there, in sleep, in a permanent dream.
That is to say: I should have drowned.
Now
Poems are finicky things. Portraying a girl, wondering
what it is so wrong about her, what is so worthless?
And that is an accurate picture, and I would never
want to bury her without the decency of flowers.
She was just left to falter. She was just wordless,
having been betrayed before, just not by anyone
who had promised certainly never to do so.
A shock like that strikes the hours apart,
solitude can appear to push them aside with a touch,
and words start to flow and at first it's just hope,
getting all tangled in reasons, reasons that
trip over hemselves as they rush to leave.
Then it's just choking on doubts, covered in dust,
carrying you, the words all there and all lost
before they even leave the mouth. Unravelling.
The picture becomes different once you sweep up
the remnants, change the bedsheets, rearrange the life
you let go of without protest. Knots loosening from
around your heart. A sailor to the wind, to the stars,
broadcasting to the world- I am not broken, not
unravelling. This is nothing compared to what has been.
The memories and the memories of nightmares-
products of wanting and unwanting and biting back.
When you run, run away, isn't it because nothing
makes you happy? Or because you are asked to do so
and believe in the reasons? It wasn't one giant mistake.
But I was mistaken, I was gullible. That is a fact.
Running away- never explaining myself.
Running away- never letting the nostalgia in,
though it made me sick, though it made me ache.
Running away- finding myself somewhere
that I never expected to be. I'm sorry, and not sorry,
and I'm relieved I am myself again.
But after all this running,
I'm asking permission to return.
