literature

internal and external bruising _ C

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Published: Jun 14, 2012

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Literature Text

_{i stay up too late, picking white shreds
of dead skin from my lips and reading
by the flickering light of the ancient
'fresh prince of bel-air' re-runs that air
at 4 a.m.; i can't sleep, not because
i'm not tired, but because i know i'll
wrap my arms around my pillow and
pretend it's you, because i know i'll
wake up disappointed.

its only when my mouth in filled with
copper that i snap out of my trance
and realise that my lips are aching
like my chest is. i've had this shadows
resting inbetween my molars giving
me a toothache, and i've taken to
remembering you in flashes of nightmares
and describing you negatively.
i'll now describe your eager hands as
running over me like a nosebleed.
it might help me shake this lingering love.

most days, my body is present but my
self is not. i prefer to be in my own
mind, because this way, no matter
where i really am, i can find a way to
be with you. sometimes it's five years
in the future, sometimes it's today,
sometimes it's three years in the past.
you stay with me, you are peter pan
perched on my window-sill saying,
"come away with me. come away."

yesterday i saw you in cracks of my staircase
and inbetween the pages of my class novel.
you look like hell, and i thought the
darkened circles under your eyes
resembled the colour i think my
love for you would probably be.
its saddening that the thick oxygenated
purple and red mix is kind of like
what i saw once one one
of those anti smoking commercials
spilling forth from a dissected lung.
thats what you are.
you're my personal cancer.

i think the worst thing is not that i fell in
love with someone who could never love
me back, but someone who could; who
did. i fell in love with someone who
would have kissed me gently while rain
pattered voraciously on the green roof
of his truck. i fell in love with someone
who would have whispered my name
as he pulled my shirt over my head
and laid me down, who would have been
shaky and slow but so very, very gentle.

your mail still comes here occasionally
i think its your muscle memory betraying you
the same way mine still remembers the finger
movements to type your number into my phone.
but i leave the letters on the front porch,
and you come get it when the lights
are out and i'm not home.
i sometimes wish you had yelled at me,
left my skin red or blooming with purples and blues.
but you didn't. you loved me back.
and then stopped.}