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Posts Tagged ‘moving on’

Does his dresser still have our initials

carved into its side

with a knife-made-heart

framing them?

I wonder if you feel how deep

the markings are

with your index finger—

 

On the mornings he

goes to work,

you are left with

a naked mattress.

Or maybe you convinced him

to get a comforter set.

Maybe he makes his bed

now.

 

When it rains, does he look

at you?

He stays in his room

and doesn’t take

his medication

so he can feel the pain

a little bit longer.

He is trying not to yell

at you,

so he ignores you

instead.

 

Do you stare at the toy

in his therapist’s waiting room?

The one that has the beads

you can slide along

the green, red, yellow, blue

skinny rods—

The roller coaster controlled

by little hands.

 

I hope when he takes you

to New Jersey

he buys you dresses too.

I want you to have

a caricature done

of you two

at a festival

and I want him to

smile at you

when you dress up

and when you don’t dress up

and when you are in sweats,

concentrating hard

on your laptop screen.

 

I want him to ask you

what you bought at Target

with your mom,

how your day was with

your best friend,

what you had for dinner—

 

When you see your

reflection in his TV

I want you to feel real,

and not like a character

in one of his

video games.

 

I couldn’t be the girl he drew

in his comics,

the one who always saved him

from the dark monster

living in his mind.

Thank you for being

the girl in the next edition

that takes over.

I no longer wonder

if he fell out of frame.

 

I live in another story now

and there are no more pages

left for him.

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Paperback lives are packed tight
in boxes,
wrapped up in bubble wrap and
protective foam.
When I pull out the packing tape
my brother says it sounds like
I am blowing my nose
over and over.

I tape the middle and
the sides of each box—
Not because taping the middle
isn’t enough;
more tape makes it feel more
final.
More real.

My art supplies are heavier
than my literature books
even though writing holds more
weight with me.
I didn’t feel right
leaving my paint behind
even if I would
never find the time
or space again.

I cleared off my walls
before I was ready for them to be
plain.
But I needed to face
the holes that the tacks left behind.

My cat rubs against my face
with the side
of her mouth,
and purrs into my cheeks.
She is entranced by the
boxes piling up, the loose plastic
tumbling with the fan’s breeze,
and the empty bookshelves—
The empty bookshelves.

She jumps.

She sees emptiness
as an opportunity
to explore.

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You are someone that I’ll miss fast,
before the door shuts.
You have always made me feel like
I have something to say.

You are the inside of a typewriter–
has to be open
for the ink to be changed.
But after,
tucked away and private–
cat-like and half loner.

Your drawers and pockets are filled
with conversation starters
and you collect abandoned hammers
on the side of the road
like they are lost people,
or pieces of yourself.

To me you are not someone who
rides a bike or writes or paints,
teaches, loves life.
The reality of you is not that
obvious.

Fingers, keys, and ink make a deal
to find meaning.
Even with all the noise and mistakes
and quirks
you never stopped.

So I will never
stop.

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Love Me

I walked across town
to give him a muffin
when he was out sick
from school.
Just one day of not
seeing him
at his locker
made my stomach tighten
in triple knots.
Didn’t eat lunch,
forgot how.

One night we stood close,
my hat on backwards,
jacket zipped high.
He told me I looked like
a boy.
If I was
he would have kissed me.
If I was a chameleon
I would have gotten my wish.

It isn’t something that passes.
It’s something you have to
write down,
but can’t.
When you search songs
you will always find it,
buried, and it hits you
like a bumper car
from every side.
You would rather
be covered in bruises than know
that they will never
be in tune
with you.

We listened to My Chemical Romance
and Mayday Parade
as he wrapped his arms
around my body–
an artificial need
to be close to me.
I fed on the sincerity of his
warmth, and told myself
I would never forget
his smell or what the
date was, or
the color of the couch,
the movie we watched after.

I feel the carvings,
the raw indentations
I left years ago.
Tally marks of how many days
I spent knowing
my best friend would never–

I found that time
is not what heals. It is not
what made me move again,
love again,
smile, feel, re-learn
simple words
actions.
Chew, swallow
breathe,
untie knots.

Something new.
Something new.
Breaks patterns.
Breaks you
out of
being
broken.

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No longer

Photo credit: balletnews.co.uk

Photo credit: balletnews.co.uk

It’s so weird

to think

about your

birthday.

I can’t picture

you having

one without

me there or

without my

card or present

or hug.

I can’t picture the

apartment,

the look on your

face,

or what cards you

got in the mail

this year.

I can’t picture

you.

You are not in

my life

and have not

been in my

life for two years.

Is it selfish

and single minded

of me

to not be able

to imagine you

aging outside

of my memory?

To me you

are two years

younger than

you are now

and will never

grow because

I don’t want to

know you now.

I don’t know

who you are,

where you are,

or how you are

right now.

But to me

today is not

your birthday.

It only

used to be.

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These dreams
I keep having
must be on
a conveyer belt.
I feel like
someone
is unzipping
me
and seeing
what I am
missing
deep down
in the core
of my heart’s
luggage.
And it’s not
the ex boyfriend.
It is the purring
carry-on
bag
that I never
got to say
a proper goodbye
to.
And these dreams
keep reminding
me how much
I would give
to see
him one
last time.
But the one
thing I
can’t do
is go
back.

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