This One Is Personal (Stovetop)

We burnt each other on the hand 

with our cigarettes and

you left a mark directly below my thumb,

the wound holding boundless life,

toxins and flesh,

visible vitality

in the way that it rested,

a continuous sort of ache,

similar to what you

were starting to become.

You burnt my hand in desperation, 

and it stayed for a while,

but skin tones always shift 

and you started shifting. 

You yell at me:

the tone gets lighter,

the wound more healed.

You get too drunk:

the skin tone shifts.

You leave me:

my heart hurts so roughly

that I cannot feel my hand.

You lead me on:

I am more faded than

my heart.

You lie to me:

my worth seeks disintegration

and my body is cold,

the wound more healed.

I don't blame you for any of this

and I never will.

Your wound healed too,

don't you remember?

I remember

love left on a burning stove

and like toxicity

we burst into 

ashes and 

dust and

thrown rings and

promises and

I cannot see the scar on my 

hand anymore

because I stopped needing the

pain or a placard of

the feeling of pain

to remind me that 

my name means love

and maybe that is a good thing.

Author's Note

If you ever stumble upon this, know that I regret nothing and have nothing but love for you. It was written out of a certain mental place and all I can do is try to capture those moments in writing, regardless of how I rationally feel.

Reviews

[Chris A Jones]

Interesting read. Those moments that you capture from the certain mental place, is where I think a lot of writers get their poems or stories. It's good that you have decided to capture those moments. Not everyone will do that.