our unfortunate way of being

-

we have

spilled blood

it lies in a puddle where

we withered

where you last held

my hand, touched

my face, traced lines on

my palm,

it’s the evidence

on a crime scene

last thing left of a

brutal story

it is, how we picked up

desolate pieces,

fit them together

with a glue gun, and

hammer and

nails and wood

and drill

and the last bit

of our strength

as though we’ve got

diamond hearts,

beautiful and

invincible and

indestructible and

we failed miserably.

 

that blood is this ache

in my chest, the one

that makes waking up a war,

sleep a raging battle, it is

the end of a too long

conversation, saying goodbye

at the door, shutting it,

exhaling, sinking back into self

it is the irrevocable time spent,

the lost pieces of myself

left with you, the

unwanted parts

of you that

remain

with

me-

 

(that blood

is how you remain

my unfinished poem).