Written February 21st

The lacerations you left,

deep, bleeding for weeks,

months,

years,

still haven’t healed.

They’re still here,

ugly, mottled scabs

that I sometimes

lie in bed with

and pick until it hurts

and all the old memories start

bleeding from me.

 

It’s easy for me to

pretend that there aren’t

any broken parts

of your heart, that

all the pieces just

fell right back into place like

an army unit called to attention.

That way,

I can really beat the s**t

out of myself.

 

But hearts are like

decks of cards, and

when you throw one

against the wall, and every one of the

hand-interlocked walks in the summer

and kisses at midnight

and hugs whenever you wanted one

and smiles shared like a warm jacket

and giddy new-relationship giggles

as well as breaking-up tears

and more I love yous than you can count

all go scattering across the room,

you’re bound to lose

something forever,

something that,

as you crawl on your

hands and knees searching,

you’ll never find again.

It isn’t that you seem to have

done a better job at

rising from our ashes, though.

After all, you always were

the more resilient one.

No, it’s the way you so easily

slipped into happiness

after you shed me,

because I’m not happy

that you’re happy

at my expense.

 

Thinking of you with him,

of all people,

is like a burn on my skin

that stings like hell every time I touch it.

 

But one day,

it’ll be me who doesn’t care anymore,

and every time I’m bleeding,

I just pray that I can still hurt you.